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Oh god.
I don’t have a clear shot. Her body is mostly obscured behind his, and if I miss by even an inch, I’ll end up putting a bullet in the man I love instead of my grandmother. How does he possibly think I can do this?
Unbidden, the words he spoke to me earlier filter through my mind.
Ja by umer za tebja.
I would die for you.
He doesn’t care if I hit him too, as long as I take Olivia out. He’s willing to die to make sure that happens. To protect me. To protect his brothers.
My palms are sweaty as I grip the gun tighter. I don’t have much time. Olivia is walking Malice slowly backward, and if I let them get much farther, I’ll have to step out of the shadows to take the shot.
I feel sick, bile climbing up my throat as I raise the gun. Malice’s gaze flicks toward me one more time, and I have to blink furiously, refusing to let tears cloud my vision. My hands shake, but I grit my teeth and force them to stop, locking my arms out as I take aim.
Please don’t let me kill him.
My finger caresses the trigger for a second, I adjust my hands just a little… and then I fire. The kickback from the gun ripples up my arms, and a heartbeat later, blood sprays from Olivia’s neck. She lets out a choked sound, and Malice shoves her backward just as she pulls the trigger of her own weapon. The bullet flies upward, missing him by a hair, and Olivia staggers and falls, blood pouring from a hole in her neck.
Instantly, Malice goes for her gun, grabbing it and unloading the clip into her chest. Her body jerks with the impact, and as the last shot rings out, the room goes quiet.
Then Malice drops the gun on her chest and turns to stride toward me, nearly knocking me off my feet as our bodies collide. He wraps his bound arms around me, pulling me close in a bear hug.
“You did it,” he breathes. “I fucking knew you could.”
I can’t breathe at all, and it’s not just because of how tightly he’s holding me. My lungs seem to have seized up as all the latent fear I wouldn’t let myself feel before I pulled the trigger rushes through me.
“Angel.” Ransom’s voice comes from one side, and when Malice releases me, his brother is right there. Fear and relief seem to battle in his expression, and he cups my face in his hands, his fingers digging into my hair. “You were supposed to stay put. Stay hidden.”
He doesn’t chastise me any more than that though, crushing his lips to mine instead. He must’ve cut Vic’s binds already, because Vic’s hands come to my shoulders as he turns me around. There’s an almost haunted expression on his face, and I know he’s probably grappling with the same overwhelming emotions I am at having almost had to watch people he loves die.
“That was a good shot,” he tells me.
I nod, although his words only make my stomach clench all over again.
When Vic releases me, I glance toward his twin. Ransom is cutting the zip ties off his wrists, and my breath hitches as I catch sight of a raw patch of skin on Malice’s arm, a red line that cuts across his tattooed flesh.
It’s from the bullet, I realize.
That’s how close I came to missing.
He notices me staring at him in horror and glances down at the wound, then shakes his head.
“I’m fine,” he tells me, his voice firm. “I’m alive because you took the shot, Solnyshka. We all are. I’m gonna have a hell of a bruise from where a couple bullets hit my vest before Olivia’s men ambushed us, but this?” He gestures to the raw wound on his arm. “This is nothing. I’ll wear the scar with pride.”
A noise from nearby draws our attention, all of the men tensing up as if ready to fight again. But when Jonah limps into the room, holding his hands up, we relax a bit.
“Everything clear?” Ransom asks. “Her other bodyguard is down?”
“There were two of ’em,” Jonah informs us, grimacing. “But yeah, they’re down.”
“Fuck.” Ransom looks him over. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he grunts.
The tall, lanky man has blood on his face, arms, and knuckles, but he doesn’t seem to care. His gaze scans the room we’re in, taking in the scene before landing on Olivia’s body.
He steps closer to her, and I follow, shivering a little as I take in the pool of blood beneath her still form. She doesn’t look peaceful in death. Her face is contorted, her jaw hanging open a little and her eyes wide. It’s gruesome and unsettling, but I don’t look away. Because there’s something fitting about it too. At least in death, she can’t hide behind the façade of civility. She looks just like the monster she is.
