I have time to send a quick SOS to my brothers before five men in black tactical gear pour through the destroyed window, weapons raised. These aren’t street thugs here to rob the place; they’re professionals.
And they’re here for me.
I drop behind the booth as bullets chew through wood, sending splinters flying. I return fire, two quick shots catching the first one in the chest. He goes down hard.
The other four split up into flanking positions. Two circle wide, trying to pin me down with crossfire. A third moves toward the kitchen. The fourth drops back near the window, cutting off the exit.
Toward Dinara.
White-hot rage floods through me. I break cover, firing at the one heading for the back. The shot clips him in the shoulder andhe spins, returning fire. He doesn’t go down, only staggers and adjusts his grip on his weapon, still advancing.
One of the men circling wide is closing in from the side. I pivot, fire, but my gun clicks empty.
Fuck.
I dive behind the bar as bullets tear through the space where I was standing. My shoulder hits the ground hard, pain shooting down my arm. I fumble for my spare magazine but there isn’t one.
The other flanking soldier is closing in from the opposite side. I’m trapped, unarmed, and fucked in the truest sense of the word.
The one who dropped back near the window makes his move, coming around the end of the bar. He doesn’t see me until he’s almost on top of me. I get a hand on his rifle, wrench it sideways, and the shots go into the floor. We grapple before I drive his own weapon up under his chin. The trigger pull is his, not mine. He drops and I have a gun again, but the magazine is almost spent and I have no idea how many rounds are left.
And then Dinara appears.
She has a long chef’s knife gripped in her right hand. The man I clipped in the shoulder, still mobile, still armed, is advancing toward the kitchen entrance where she’s positioned. He doesn’t see her until she’s on him. Her free hand clamps over his mouth as she drives the chef’s knife up under his ribs with brutal efficiency. His eyes go wide, then empty.
Holy shit.
She yanks the blade free and the man collapses. She’s already moving toward the next target. One of the flanking soldiers has his back to her, too focused on keeping me pinned behind the bar to notice.
She closes the distance. The chef’s knife goes into his thigh, hamstringing him. He screams and drops to one knee, andshe’s on him, the edge finding his throat before he can turn his weapon around.
The last man standing, the other flanker who was circling wide, realizes his teammates are down. He swings his rifle toward Dinara. My heart stops as the barrel tracks her chest. I raise the stolen rifle and pray there’s a round left in the magazine. I pull the trigger. The recoil punches my shoulder and the mercenary’s head snaps back. He collapses into a heap.
Silence crashes down, broken only by the ringing in my ears and the sound of car alarms outside.
I am on my feet, weapon raised, scanning for more threats.
“That’s all of them. We’re clear.” Dinara’s breathing comes in sharp bursts, her face flushed with exertion. Blood streaks her face and clothes, but her hands are steady as she wipes the chef’s knife clean on a dead man’s jacket.
The fear I’ve been holding back since the first shot fired crashes over me in a wave. She’s alive. She’s standing there covered in someone else’s blood and she’s okay.
I close the distance in three strides and pull her into my arms, one hand tangling in her hair as I kiss her hard enough to bruise. She makes a surprised sound against my mouth but then she’s kissing me back, her blood-slicked hands gripping my shirt.
When I pull away, we’re both wired, electric, the aftermath of violence singing in our veins.
“That scared the shit out of me,” I say against her forehead.
“I told you I could handle myself.” But her voice is softer now, the bravado gone. Her hands are fisting in my shirt like she needs to hold on to something solid.
“You did more than handle yourself.” I pull back to look at her face. “You were fucking impressive. And I’m so pissed off that you risked your life for me, I don’t have the words. I’m going to smack your ass the moment we’re alone.”
She gives me a crooked grin. “Promise?”
Shouting from outside announces my brothers’ arrival. Matvey and Dem burst through the door, guns drawn, six of our men behind them.
They stop dead, taking in the carnage. Five bodies sprawled across Rosa’s once-pristine restaurant. Blood pooling on the tile. Me bleeding from the arm, Dinara covered in gore.
“Jesus Christ,” Dem breathes.
