“When you die, know this is because Birdie beat you. She remembers everything, you bastard.”
Cesaro’s eyes flicker past me. It’s a mistake or a warning. I don’t have time to decide which before more gunfire erupts from inside the suite. Not his men this time.
It’s different rhythm and different angles. Heavier weapons.
Conti.
Lorenzo and his men hit the room like a second storm, and for one fragmented instant the entire world becomes muzzle flash and broken glass and shouted orders in two languages. Cesaro’s remaining shooters fire toward the new threat. Conti’s men answer. One crashes through the balcony door. Another drops near the bed.
The whole suite is suddenly a war zone.
And in the center of it, Cesaro moves.
I see it too late.
He’s not retreating.
He’s choosing. Not Conti or escape.
No, he’s coming after one thing. Me. Maybe because I’m closest.
Maybe because he knows exactly what this will do.
Our eyes lock for one split second. Then his gun comes up.
I fire first.
So does he.
The impact hits like a sledgehammer to the ribs.
For one stunned moment, I don’t understand what happened. The world jerks sideways. The balcony lights smear. Sound turns hollow and far away. Then the pain arrives and I stagger back against the broken doorframe.
Inside the suite, Conti is shouting something. Men are still firing. Someone is screaming my name.
Cesaro takes my shot too—I see it in the way he reels, see the dark stain spreading across his shirt—but he’s still standing.
Then Lorenzo appears in the doorway. He sees me. Sees Cesaro.
Sees the blood. And something in his face goes dead.
“Boss—” Cesaro starts. “He tried to hurt Miss Miller.”
Lorenzo shoots him.
Once.
Twice.
A third time after Cesaro is already falling.
The sound of the body hitting the balcony floor barely registers over the rushing in my ears.
I try to straighten.
Can’t.
My hand comes away from my side wet and dark. I can’t breathe right. Every inhale feels thin and wrong.
