The first bullet hit the hallway chandelier, and the world went to glass and smoke.
I was a prima ballerina before I was Dante Romano's fiancée. Fifteen years on the stage had taught my body to move without asking permission: turn, land, recover, smile. So when the shots rang out in the private corridor of the penthouse, I did what fifteen years of training demanded.
I stepped in front of Elena.
That was the joke of it. I, who had built every exit route in that building, who had vetted every guard, who kept the Don alive with schedules and safe houses and a dozen quiet systems he never noticed — I moved to shield the woman who had been crying on his shoulder for six months. And Dante, the man I was going to marry, reached past me.
He grabbed Elena and pulled her behind him, and his fre
