Atlas already had a steel blade buried low in a man’s side.
He twisted it without looking, expression flat, stepping off line as another shot tore past where he’d just been.The blade stayed in as the man folded around it, breath leaving him in a wet choke.
Gianni had another pinned against the mirrors.His forearm crushed into the man’s throat, glass breaking under their weight.Shards drove into his skin—face, neck, shoulders—cutting him open in thin, bright lines.Gianni didn’t rush it.He held him there, pressure steady, a low laugh under his breath like this was exactly where he belonged.
My eyes found Tone.They didn’t have a choice.
She stood in the middle of the room, gun up, arm streaked with blood that wasn’t slowing her down.Her stance was fierce, controlled.She was alive with fire, a warrior when it came to defending her family.
It hit something deep in my chest—sharp, dangerous.
Then Vilevski was on her.
His hand clamped around her wrist, twisting hard enough to force the gun out of her hand.It clattered to the floor and got lost in the shuffle of feet as more men rushed into the parlor.
I was moving before the thought finished forming.The distance between me and her collapsed.My hand closed around his throat and I tore him off her, dragging him back and slamming him into a wall.Wood cracked under the impact, frame splintering as he hit.
“Not yours to touch,” I hissed.
My voice came out wrong.Cold.Empty.
Vilevski laughed.Even with my hand tightening and his air cutting off.His hands rose, clawing at my fingers, even as they squeezed harder, digging deeper.
I felt the change in him—the flicker in his eyes when it registered there was nothing in me holding back and that I had no intention of letting him go.
Behind me, a shot cracked.
Another man broke toward Tone.
I let Vilevski drop just long enough to intercept.I caught the attacker mid-step—hand locking on his arm, yanking him forward.My knee drove up into his ribs.Hard.I felt them give under the impact.
He folded, choking.But it wasn’t nearly enough.My hand went to the back of his head and I drove him down—face first—into the edge of the counter.
The sound was wet.Heavy.Bone crunching.
He dropped to the ground.
I stepped over him and went back to Vilevski.
The room was already dying down, gunfire thinning as movement slowed.
Blood spread across the floor in dark, uneven streaks.
In my head, the space narrowed and all noise was stripped away until all I could focus on was Vilevski.
He was still breathing, propping himself up on his arms as he tried to haul himself between scattered bodies in a feeble attempt to get away.
I looked down at him.
There were no distractions now.There was no cover for him, and no performance.
It was just me and what I was about to do to him.
I stepped in front of him, effectively preventing his path to freedom.He stopped crawling and stared at my feet, before his eyes moved upward until they fixed on me.
He smiled up at me.There was blood at his mouth, but he still smiled with the same ugly arrogance he’d always carried.He was older, thicker, more violent in his arrogance.
I didn’t speak as I squatted to his level, my eyes meeting his.
