I glance around. “Mike…we’re in public.”
“I don’t care,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine. “Tell me. Do I make you happy?”
I smile, my heart squeezing. “Yes! Happy?”
He grins, the kind of laugh that shakes his shoulders and reaches his eyes. “Yes.”
Servers glide between tables with trays of sparkling water, fine wines, and carefully plated hors d’oeuvres. The clink of glasses and soft murmurs of conversation fill the room.
At our table, the first course arrives. A delicate salad of mixed greens, roasted cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of balsamic reduction sits on fine porcelain plates. Mike guides my hand to the fork with a slight smile, as if we’re performing a secret ritual only we know.
I take a bite, the crisp lettuce and tangy dressing waking my senses. Around us, people are exchanging formalities and laughing, but I’m not paying attention. I steal a glance at Mike, watching him politely slice his grilled salmon, eyes scanning the room even as he tastes each bite.
“Is it good?” I ask, causing him to tilt his head slightly toward me.
He nods then, smiling. “Yes…perfect.”
The main course arrives—tender filet mignon resting atop a bed of truffle-infused mashed potatoes, garnished with fresh herbs and a roasted vegetable medley. I’m about to pick up my knife when a deafening gunshot shatters the delicate calm of the room.
Glass explodes from the overhead window. The bullet lands squarely on my plate, sending shards of porcelainclattering to the floor. The sharp metallic ping echoes through the room.
The room erupts. Guests scream and duck under tables. Chairs topple. Crystal glasses shatter. The air fills with a panic-laden chaos of voices and movement. Waiters dive for cover, trays of untouched food clattering to the floor.
Mike reacts instantly. His body moves over mine with a speed I’ve never seen outside of his controlled operations. He shields me with his arms, chest pressed against my back, as his eyes scan the room like a predator.
But it’s a sniper shot; they would never catch who did it.
Around us, his brothers and guards are springing into action. Sergei’s face is tense but focused, coordinating protective positions. Men with earpieces fan out toward windows and exits. Some guests are being ushered to safer corners of the hall, while others are frozen, unsure what to do.
I press myself against Mike, my heart hammering, feeling the shock and adrenaline surge through me. He doesn’t let go. One hand curls around my waist while the other rests lightly on the back of my neck, keeping me close and controlled.
“Ellie,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, “you’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I nod, unable to speak. My mind replays the sound of the gunshot, the shattered glass, the chaos erupting around us. Every instinct screams danger, but the solidity of his body against mine is a lifeline.
Without a word, he guides me toward the exit, using his body as a shield. I follow his lead, stepping quickly but carefully, trusting him entirely. Moments later, he ushers me into the backseat of our car and climbs in after me. Sergei slips into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life.
Through the window, I catch sight of Raelyn and the other women. Their expressions are a mixture of shock andconcern as they watch our car speed away from the venue. I feel a pang of guilt.
“I didn’t say goodbye to them,” I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
Mike turns his head toward me. There’s something in his eyes—apology, frustration, and something else I can’t name. He opens his mouth, pauses, then simply pulls me closer into his arms. His cheek rests against my hair, his voice a low, intense whisper.
“I’m sorry,Solnste,” he says. “I should have kept you safe. I failed you…but I swear, I will make sure nothing ever touches you anymore.”
I press my hand against his chest, feeling his heart hammering as loudly as mine. “It’s not your fault,” I whisper. “It’s not your fault at all.”
But he shakes his head ever so slightly, lips brushing the top of my hair. “It’s my job. My life revolves around keeping you safe. And I almost lost you. That…is never going to happen again.”
We arrive home shortly after. The tension in the air is almost tangible. As soon as we step into our suite, Mike doesn’t wait for me to speak.
“That was a warning sniper shot,” he says, his voice low but sharp, pacing the room. “They didn’t plan to kill you, Ellie. Or you’d be gone. They just wanted to let you know they’re on to you.” He stops, glances at me, his eyes burning with intensity. “This no longer feels like it’s about me. I have a feeling you have something they want.”
I frown, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just an ordinary linguist. What could they possibly want from me?”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. He’s thinking, calculating, and every second of silence stretches unbearably.
Then his phone rings. He glances at it, frowns slightly, and swipes to answer. His tone is clipped, businesslike. I catch only snippets: “Yes…I understand…okay. Thank you.” The call ends as abruptly as it began.
