Chapter 7 - THE TRAP AT THE CHARITY GALA
Saturday evening brought the annual Chicago Heritage Charity Gala at the Drake Hotel.
Roman insisted I attend as his date.
He had purchased a stunning emerald-green silk gown for me, perfectly accentuating my hair and eyes.
The ballroom was glittering with diamonds, champagne flutes, and corrupt politicians.
I stood beside Roman near the marble pillar, sipping sparkling water, while he shook hands with city councilmen.
Suddenly, the room’s ambient lighting flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then plunged into total darkness.
Gasps echoed across the ballroom.
“Stay behind me,” Roman commanded instantly, his hand slipping inside his jacket.
Emergency red backup lights clicked on.
From the grand staircase, three men in tactical black gear drew silenced pistols.
“Target Roman!” one shouted.
Chaos erupted.
Screams filled the air as wealthy socialites dove beneath banquet tables.
I didn't run.
When the first gunman raised his weapon toward Roman’s blind side, I lunged forward, slamming my heavy crystal champagne flute directly into his wrist.
The gun clattered to the marble floor.
Roman spun around, delivering a brutal roundhouse kick that sent the second attacker crashing into a crystal display.
His security detail swarmed the room in seconds, neutralizing the remaining gunmen.
Silence returned, broken only by the heavy breathing of terrified guests.
Roman grabbed my arms, his face pale with fury and shock.
“Are you insane?!” he roared, shaking me slightly.
“You could have been killed!”
“You were exposed,” I panted, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“I wasn't going to let them shoot you.”
Roman stared at me, his chest heaving.
All the armor he wore around the world shattered in that single instant.
He pulled me fiercely against his chest, burying his face in my hair.
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“Don't ever do that again,” he whispered fiercely against my ear.
“I can’t lose you, Megan.”
