Chapter 1 - The Red Velvet Carpet of Betrayal
The sharp smell of ozone,
burnt leather,
and fresh drywall dust filled the silent room,
as the red emergency lights flashed rhythmically across the shattered glass.
Gabriel’s arms remained locked around my waist like iron bands,
pressing me flat against the thick velvet rug beneath the desk.
I could hear the frantic pounding of his heart against my chest,
a heavy,
rhythmic hammer that proved he was very much alive.
"Don't move,"
he whispered directly into my ear,
his voice low,
raspy,
and laced with a dangerous command that made my breath hitch.
"If you lift your head an inch,
I will personally throttle you."
"I'm not moving,"
I squeaked,
my fingers clawing into the fabric of his dark cashmere sweater.
"I am legally dead right now,
I swear."
The bullet hole in the high-backed leather chair behind us was smooth,
encased in melted foam,
and positioned exactly where his skull had rested two seconds prior.
If I hadn't tripped over my own oversized slippers,
if I hadn't scattered buttered popcorn across his Persian rug,
that bullet would have ended the Moretti bloodline on a Tuesday night.
Vincent burst through the reinforced oak doors,
a suppressed automatic pistol drawn,
his eyes wildly sweeping the dark corners of the study.
"Boss!"
he roared,
signaling four heavy men in tailored suits to form a human shield.
"Sniper from the ridge!"
"Clear the perimeter!"
"I know where the shot came from,
Vincent,"
Gabriel growled,
his chest expanding as he shifted his weight slightly,
trying to shield my body completely with his own.
"Check the west gate tower,"
he ordered,
his jaw tight with fury.
"The angle was too low for the outer wall."
"Whoever pulled that trigger was standing on my property."
Vincent froze,
his hardened face turning pale under the strobing alarm lights.
"That section was supposed to be guarded by Carmine’s personal security detail tonight,"
Vincent muttered,
realization dawning in his narrow eyes.
"Get the nurse up,"
Gabriel commanded softly,
his eyes never leaving mine as the guards moved into tactical formation.
"Carefully."
Vincent reached down,
grabbing my shoulder with surprisingly gentle strength,
and pulled me up from the floor.
My knees were shaking so hard I nearly knocked over the brass lamp on the desk.
"Are you hit,
kid?"
Vincent asked,
scanning my pink cat pajamas for any signs of blood.
"No,"
I gasped,
wiping a stray piece of popcorn from my damp hair.
"Just..."
"just mortified that my life flashed before my eyes and it was ninety percent student loan bills."
Gabriel let out a sharp,
cold sound that was halfway between a cough and an actual laugh.
He adjusted his position on the floor,
his powerful arms supporting his torso while his lifeless legs lay still on the rug.
Even lying flat on his back surrounded by shattered glass,
he looked like a king assessing a battlefield.
"She saved my life,
Vincent,"
Gabriel said quietly,
his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a strange shivering heat straight down my spine.
"The clumsy fool tumbled into me at the exact microsecond the round cleared the glass."
"It wasn't clumsiness,"
I lied indignantly,
trying to regain a shred of dignity while holding a plastic bowl.
"It was... tactical gravity."
"Tactical gravity,"
Gabriel repeated,
a faint,
dangerous smirk touching the corner of his lips before disappearing entirely.
"Right."
"Now help me back into the chair before my uncle arrives with his fake tears."
As if summoned by the mention of his name,
footsteps echoed sharply down the long marble hallway outside.
Carmine Moretti barged into the room,
his silver hair perfectly slicked back,
a silk robe draped over his broad shoulders,
and an expression of horror that arrived about three seconds too late.
"Gabriel!"
Carmine shouted,
clasping his hands together as he looked at the shattered window and the bullet hole.
"Dio mio!"
"What happened here?"
"Is everyone alright?"
"I heard the alarm from my wing!"
I watched Carmine closely,
my nursing instincts kicking in before my fear could stop me.
His chest wasn't heaving.
His breathing was steady.
His leather slippers were damp around the soles,
dappled with fresh,
wet blades of grass from the manicured lawn outside the west tower.
And as he reached out to touch Gabriel’s shoulder,
I caught the distinct scent lingering on his sleeve:
cordite,
May you like
gun oil,
and cheap mint lozenges.
