Chapter 6 - THE RIVAL'S STRIKE
The kiss was bruising, desperate, and utterly consuming—a release of five years of unspoken obsession and suppressed violence. Norah pulled him closer, her hands tangling in his dark hair, entirely lost in the intoxicating heat of him. Rowan’s arm banded around her waist, lifting her effortlessly as he pulled her across the center console into his lap, his lips trailing hot, frantic paths down her jaw to the hollow of her throat.
Suddenly, the world exploded.
A deafening roar of automatic gunfire shattered the quiet of the alley. The reinforced windows of the SUV spider-webbed instantly, shards of thick glass raining down like lethal diamonds across the leather seats.
"Get down!" Rowan roared, his survival instincts kicking in with terrifying speed.
He threw his body over hers, shielding her completely with his broad frame just as a hail of bullets ripped through the metal body of the vehicle. Shouts echoed outside, accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic thud of tactical boots hitting the pavement.
"The Morettis," Rowan cursed under his breath, his eyes turning hard and dead as ice. The rival syndicate had tracked them. They knew Rowan was vulnerable, distracted, out in the open.
Rowan didn't hesitate. With one fluid motion, he drew a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, kicked open the passenger door, and pulled Norah down onto the floorboards of the footwell.
"Stay down, don't move an inch," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.
Before Norah could grab his sleeve, Rowan rolled out of the vehicle into the line of fire. The alley erupted into a chaotic warzone. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark concrete walls like lightning flashes. Norah pressed her hands over her ears, her heart hammering against her ribs as she heard the distinct, terrifying sounds of close-quarters combat—the wet thud of impact, the sharp reports of suppressed gunfire, and the shouts of dying men.
Rowan was a force of nature, moving with ruthless, terrifying efficiency, cutting down the ambushers one by one before they even knew what hit them.
Within two agonizing minutes, the gunfire abruptly stopped. Silence reclaimed the alley, broken only by the hiss of the SUV’s radiator leaking coolant onto the pavement.
The passenger door was wrenched open. Rowan stood there, his suit jacket torn, blood staining his shirt sleeve—not his own, thankfully—and his chest heaving as he stared down at her.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands frantic as he checked her over for injuries.
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"No," Norah gasped, trembling as she let him pull her up into his arms. "No, I'm okay."
"We can't go back to the Venetian," Rowan said, his jaw tightening into a hard line of absolute fury. "The safe house at the docks. Now."
