Gunfire swallowed the gala whole.
One moment the chandeliers spilled golden light, the next it shattered into raining shards. Screams cracked against the marble walls, a cacophony of terror as men in tuxedos shoved their wives toward the exits. The orchestra had barely begun to shriek when the first body dropped, crimson spilling over the polished floor.
I didn’t know if I’d been hit. I didn’t know if Angelo had. My ears rang, my body pressed into his chest as he dragged me behind a pillar. His hand was iron at the back of my neck, forcing me down until the marble scraped my knees.
“Stay down,” he growled, voice sharp enough to slice through the storm.
Gunfire popped again, closer. My lungs seized. The scent of cordite, of blood, burned into me. Somewhere a woman sobbed, begging in Spa
