Chapter 2 - THE FIRST SHOT
The gunshot echoed through the total darkness, a sharp, deafening crack that shattered the polished silence of the forty-second floor.
Glass exploded to Nora’s left.
Before her brain could process the sound, a heavy hand grabbed her shoulder, pulling her violently to the carpeted floor.
She hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of her lungs. Shards of crystal rained down on her back.
“Stay down,” a deep voice ordered.
It was Adrian.
The billionaire wasn't cowering. His hand was firmly on her shoulder, pressing her flat against the floor behind the thick mahogany of the service station.
Red emergency lights pulsed to life, casting bloody, rotating shadows across the dining room.
Nora gasped for air, her heart thrashing against her ribs. She looked toward Table Seven.
Vivienne was gone.
The three security men who had been guarding Adrian were on the floor, motionless. The men Vivienne had signaled were moving through the red strobes, guns drawn, sweeping the room.
“They’re looking for you,” Nora whispered, her voice trembling. “Mr. Blackwood, they’re going to—”
“They aren’t looking for me, Nora,” Adrian said quietly. His voice was terrifyingly calm.
He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders shielding her from the sightline of the approaching men.
“What do you mean?” she breathed.
Adrian reached into his tuxedo jacket. For a second, Nora thought he was pulling out a weapon. Instead, he withdrew a small, folded piece of thick cardstock.
“When the lights went out, I grabbed this from Vivienne’s clutch,” he said, pressing it into Nora’s trembling hand. “I saw it when she dropped her bag. It’s why I knew your name.”
Nora looked down.
In the dim, flashing red light, she unfolded the paper.
It was a photograph.
Old. Frayed at the edges.
It was a picture of a little girl with dark hair, standing in front of a modest brick house. The girl was holding a distinct, intricately carved wooden music box.
Nora’s breath hitched.
It was her. She was seven years old in the picture. And the music box was the only thing she had left of her mother.
Written across the bottom of the photograph in Vivienne’s elegant, looping handwriting were three words:
Do not miss.
The gunshot wasn't meant for the billionaire.
It was meant for the waitress.
“Why?” Nora choked out, tears of absolute panic stinging her eyes. “I’m nobody. I serve drinks. Why does she want me dead?”
“Because you aren’t nobody,” Adrian said, his jaw tightening as heavy boots crunched over broken glass, stepping closer to their hiding spot. “And tonight wasn't just an engagement dinner. It was an execution.”
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the mahogany counter.
A shadow loomed over them.
“Found them,” a rough voice called out.
The man raised his weapon over the counter, pointing it directly at Nora’s chest.
Adrian moved faster than Nora thought humanly possible. He didn’t reach for the gun. He grabbed the heavy silver champagne bucket Nora had left on the floor, swinging it upward in a brutal arc.
It connected with the gunman’s wrist with a sickening crack.
The gun fired into the ceiling, and the man screamed.
May you like
Adrian grabbed Nora’s hand.
“Run!”
