Before I can ask what he means, he sweeps me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I'm pressed against his chest.
"Enzo!"
"Save it," he mutters, already moving. He takes the stairs two at a time like I weigh nothing. Like there's not a war zone behind us.
I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.
The forced proximity is overwhelming. His heart is racing against my ribs. I can feel the hard muscle of his chest throughhis shirt, the controlled power in the way he moves. His cologne fills my lungs—smoke, whiskey and cinnamon.
This is bad. This issobad. Because even with adrenaline screaming through my veins and gunfire echoing behind us, all I can think about is how good it feels to be in his arms. How safe. How right.
How much I want him to never let go.
We burst through a service exit into a corridor. Empty, for now at least.
Enzo sets me down but keeps one hand wrapped around mine. "Stay close."
We run. The corridor is narrow, dimly lit. My bare feet slap against cold tile. The torn dress flares around my legs with each step. Behind us I hear a door slam open.
"There!"
Shit!
Enzo moves faster, pulling me around a corner. We're in the service area now. Kitchen smells. Stainless steel. Another exit ahead glowing red.
Three men step out from the shadows.
Masked. Armed. O'Rourke's men.
Enzo shoves me behind him so fast I stumble. Then he moves.
The first man raises his gun but Enzo is faster. His knife appears from nowhere, a flash of silver in the dim light. He closes the distance in two strides. The blade goes into the man's throat so smoothly it barely makes a sound. Just a wet gurgle and then the man is falling.
Blood sprays. Hot and red.
My bones freeze.
The second man fires. The shot goes wide. Enzo is already moving, already inside his guard. His elbow cracks into the man's jaw with a sickening crunch. Bone breaks. The man drops and Enzo's on him, the knife flashing again. Once. Twice. Three times.
More blood. So much blood.
The third man is backing up, gun shaking in his hands. "Stay back?—"
Enzo doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate. He moves like violence is a language he speaks fluently. The gun goes off but Enzo's already dodged, already inside his reach. His hand closes around the man's wrist. Twist. Snap. The gun clatters to the floor. Then Enzo's knee comes up hard into the man's stomachand while he's doubled over Enzo grabs his head and slams it into the wall.
Once. Twice.
The man slides down the wall, leaving a red streak behind him.
Silence.
Just the sound of Enzo's breathing. Steady. Like he didn't just kill three men in under thirty seconds.
Me on the other hand—I can't breathe.
My hand is over my mouth and I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering. The blood. The sounds. The way that last man's head hit the wall. Crack. Crack. I've seen violence before. Lived through worse. But watching it happen now, watching Enzo's hands covered in blood, watching the bodies on the ground?—
My stomach heaves. I barely make it two steps before I'm bending over, retching. Nothing comes up but bile and champagne and fear.
