Silks and Bullets

Chapter 5: Blood on the Cutting Room Floor

Over the next three weeks, a strange, tense routine formed.

By day, Julian was wrapped up in a brutal, invisible war. Elena would hear his muted, angry arguments behind the closed doors of his office.

She saw the grim looks on Marco’s face, and she noticed the way the security detail around the penthouse doubled, then tripled.

But whenever Julian entered her studio, the monster vanished. He would sit on the leather sofa, a glass of scotch in hand, silently watching her drape fabrics, sketch designs, and curse at sewing machines. He became her muse. She found herself designing sharp, structured coats and dark, commanding suits, subconsciously inspired by the man holding her captive.

And slowly, unwillingly, she was falling. She fell for the way he made sure she ate when she forgot to switch off her sewing machine. She fell for the quiet, intense way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

Then, the illusion shattered.

It happened on a Tuesday evening. Julian had left for a "business dinner," leaving Elena alone in her loft studio. She was adjusting the hemline of a dress when she heard a faint, wet thud from the hallway.

Frowning, she walked toward the studio door. "Marco?" she called out.

The door burst open.

It wasn't Marco. It was a man in a black tactical jacket, a silenced pistol raised. Elena didn't think.

She grabbed a heavy, iron-weighted fabric steamer and swung it with all her might. It caught the intruder directly in the face, sending him crashing into a rack of evening gowns.

Before he could recover, a second man lunged into the room, grabbing her by the hair. Elena screamed, reaching blindly into her pocket. Her fingers wrapped around her heavy fabric shears.

She drove the sharp blades backward, catching the man in the thigh. He roared in pain, dropping her.

Elena scrambled away, her heart in her throat, as the first man got to his feet, wiping blood from his nose. He raised his gun, aiming directly at her chest.

A deafening roar echoed through the loft.

The man’s forehead exploded in a spray of crimson, and he crumpled to the floor. Elena gasped, looking up.

Julian stood in the doorway. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and his eyes were completely black with a terrifying, primal rage. He raised his gun again and fired twice more into the second intruder before the man could even raise his weapon.

Silence descended on the room, broken only by the smell of gunpowder and the soft hiss of the tipped-over fabric steamer.