Chapter 19 - Blood on the Silk and the Queen's Lethal Choice
We sprinted violently through the dark,
chaotic ballroom,
the deafening,
explosive sound of Marcus's heavy suppression fire providing a desperately needed,
brief window of safe,
covered movement.
Vincent moved with incredible,
terrifying speed and lethal,
perfect grace,
his large body shielding me completely from the chaotic,
flying shrapnel and deadly,
stray bullets that tore viciously through the heavy,
stagnant air around us.
My lungs burned fiercely,
my expensive,
high-heeled shoes slipping dangerously on the slick,
blood-covered marble floor,
but I forced my aching,
exhausted legs to keep moving,
refusing absolutely to slow him down.
We reached the heavy,
swinging metal doors of the catering kitchen,
Vincent crashing violently through them with his massive,
muscular shoulder,
pulling me roughly,
securely into the dimly lit,
stainless steel corridor.
The kitchen was entirely,
completely deserted,
the terrified,
panicked staff having already fled down the secure,
underground service elevators the exact moment the heavy shooting had violently begun.
Vincent spun around quickly,
aiming his smoking,
heavy pistols back toward the swinging,
metal doors,
his chest heaving with deep,
rapid breaths,
his dark eyes scanning the shadows for any pursuing,
lethal threats.
"Are you hit,"
he demanded urgently,
his eyes darting quickly,
frantically over my torn,
ruined red dress,
searching desperately for any sign of dark,
spreading blood on my pale,
shivering skin.
"No,
I am fine,"
I gasped loudly,
leaning heavily against a cold,
stainless steel preparation table,
my hand still gripping the small,
silver derringer so tightly that my knuckles were completely,
starkly white.
Before we could even take another deep,
calming breath,
a sudden,
loud crash echoed violently from the far end of the long,
narrow kitchen,
followed immediately by the heavy,
rhythmic sound of combat boots pounding rapidly against the tiled floor.
Two massive,
heavily armed men dressed entirely in black tactical gear burst violently from the service stairwell,
their deadly,
automatic rifles rising quickly,
lethally toward us.
Vincent reacted with blinding,
inhuman speed,
firing two perfect,
lethal shots that dropped the first,
massive attacker instantly,
violently to the cold,
hard floor.
But as he shifted his aim rapidly toward the second,
approaching man,
his primary pistol clicked loudly,
hollowly,
the heavy magazine completely,
unfortunately empty.
The second attacker smiled,
a cruel,
victorious grin twisting his scarred,
ugly face,
raising his heavy rifle directly,
squarely at Vincent's broad,
exposed chest.
Everything seemed to slow down completely,
the chaotic,
violent world shrinking entirely to the terrifying,
unacceptable sight of the man I loved standing directly in the lethal,
unforgiving line of fire.
I did not think,
I did not hesitate,
and I did not feel a single,
solitary ounce of fear.
I raised my right hand quickly,
leveling the small,
silver derringer exactly as Marcus had taught me in the underground,
sweaty gym,
my finger pulling the heavy,
resistant trigger with absolute,
unflinching resolve.
The sharp,
explosive crack of the small pistol echoed loudly in the confined,
metallic space,
the heavy recoil sending a sharp,
painful jolt straight up my fragile,
healing arm.
The bullet struck the massive attacker perfectly,
directly in the side of his unprotected,
thick neck,
the violent impact spinning him completely around before he collapsed heavily,
lifelessly against the steel ovens.
The heavy,
deadly rifle clattered uselessly to the floor,
and an eerie,
suffocating silence instantly fell over the ruined,
bloody kitchen,
broken only by our own harsh,
ragged breathing.
I stood perfectly still,
the smoking,
silver gun still pointed exactly where the man had been standing,
my mind struggling completely,
desperately to process the horrific,
undeniable fact that I had just taken a human life.
Vincent turned his head slowly,
looking down at the dead,
bleeding man,
and then looking directly,
intensely at me,
his dark eyes wide with genuine,
unadulterated shock and profound,
overwhelming awe.
He dropped his empty,
useless pistols to the floor,
crossing the short,
bloody distance between us in two long,
rapid strides,
pulling me violently,
desperately into his massive,
warm arms.
"You saved my life,
Lena,"
he whispered fiercely,
his hot face buried deeply into my neck,
his strong,
muscular body trembling slightly with the massive,
overwhelming adrenaline of our narrow,
violent escape,
"You actually shot him."
"He was going to kill you,"
I murmured softly,
dropping the warm,
empty derringer onto the steel table,
wrapping my arms securely,
tightly around his broad back,
feeling a strange,
dark sense of absolute,
undeniable peace wash completely over my shattered soul.
"No one is ever going to hurt you,
Vincent,
not while I am standing here,"
I vowed quietly,
the gentle,
broken waitress completely gone,
replaced entirely by the ruthless,
blood-forged Queen of the criminal underworld.
Vincent pulled back slightly,
looking down at me with an expression of pure,
absolute,
terrifying devotion,
a dark,
beautiful promise burning brightly in his completely captivated eyes.
"I know,"
he answered softly,
pressing a deep,
bruising,
and incredibly passionate kiss directly onto my lips,
"And now,
we are going to personally,
May you like
ruthlessly end Nikolai's pathetic,
meaningless existence."
