For a moment, I think of Leonid coming home to see my lifeless body, the rage he’d feel over someone daring to hurt what is his.
Then I think of my parents and Audrey receiving the news of my death. They’d be devastated.
I can’t die here tonight, but I can’t think of a possible escape from this.
Tears prickle my eyes as I clutch my phone tighter and say a silent prayer, hoping Leonid or someone, anyone at all, comes to protect me.
Finally, the handle moves, and every ounce of blood drains from my face. I stare at it, unable to look away as it slowly turns downward.
No. No. No.
The office suddenly feels too dark. Too isolated. I wonder where Petrov is. Is he even alive?
Maybe I should’ve jumped out the window when I had the chance, because from what I’ve heard about the mafia, jumping to my death would be a lot more merciful than whatever hell is about to be unleashed if they find me.
The door creaks open by a fraction, the moonlight spilling in from the floor-to-ceiling glass walls framing a large silhouette in the doorway.
My heart slams painfully against my ribs as the gap widens. The silence stretches so long that my lungs start to burn.
After a moment, he takes a step forward, but before he can take another, a gunshot explodes somewhere downstairs. The sound is so sudden and loud that I gasp before clamping a hand over my mouth to keep myself from making another sound.
A second shot follows almost immediately, then more shots and shouting. I hear the sound of vases breaking, and for a moment, I just sit under the desk, completely frozen.
My brain refuses to focus on what’s happening downstairs because all my focus is on the man stationed by the door.
He reacts first, pulling his leg back and cursing in Russian, and then the door jerks shut. His footsteps are hurried as they thunder down the hallway.
He’s gone.
Without a thought or hesitation, I scramble to my feet and run out of the home office. More gunshots erupt downstairs, and I run straight into them. My ears ring from the banging sounds and I choke from the smell of gunpowder polluting the air.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, the sight in front of me draws a scream from my throat. My legs give out completely.
Dead bodies.
The white marble floor has disappeared beneath blood, shattered glass, and motionless men dressed in black tactical gear. Bullet holes scar the walls. A chandelier hangs crookedly overhead, pieces of crystal glittering among the carnage.
My stomach lurches, and for a horrifying second, I think I’m going to throw up. I clamp a hand over my mouth and stumble backward. I’ve only ever seen a scene this gruesome in movies.
But this isn’t a movie.
This isn’t one of the crime documentaries Audrey and I used to watch while eating chicken wings, French fries, and canned beer.
These are real people. Real bodies.
Another gunshot cracks somewhere deeper in the mansion. I flinch so hard my shoulder slams into the banister as panic claws its way up my throat. Whatever the hell is happening here isn’t over yet.
I need to hide.
I need to—
A burst of automatic gunfire erupts from the east corridor, followed by cursing and yelling in Russian. I don’t know what the words mean, but I can hear the anger behind them, the animosity and spite in each one.
Someone rounds the corner, and my heart stops when I spot a man dressed in black tactical gear with a rifle clutched against his chest. His head snaps toward me, and our eyes meet.
I see the exact moment he realizes who I am and decides to raise his weapon.
No.
