Chapter 6 - The Blackout and the Ambush
The Grand Ballroom plunged into pitch-black chaos.
Screams of terror ripped through the darkness, followed immediately by the sound of shattering glass as the heavy floor-to-ceiling windows along the terrace were breached.
Before I could even scream, Vincent’s arm wrapped around my waist like a steel band, lifting me off my feet and pulling me down behind a reinforced oak dining table as the deafening chatter of suppressed automatic gunfire tore through the air.
Putt-putt-putt-putt!
Plaster rained down from the ceiling. Champagne flutes exploded into millions of crystal shards across the floor.
“Luke! Perimeter defense! Delta formation!” Vincent roared into his tactical comms unit over the bedlam.
His free hand moved with blinding speed, pulling a matte-black Glock 19 from a concealed holster beneath his tuxedo jacket. He cocked the slide with a clean, metallic clack.
“Claire, stay down on the floor and don’t move,” Vincent ordered, his voice completely calm, the battlefield his natural element.
“Vincent, there are civilians everywhere!” I cried out, coughing as smoke and dust filled the ballroom.
“The exits are blocked. Mario brought mercenaries,” Vincent muttered, his eyes scanning the darkness through the green ambient glow of the emergency exit signs. “They aren't here to shoot the crowd. They’re here for you.”
Two laser sights cut through the smoke, their crimson dots sweeping across the floor toward our position.
Vincent didn't hesitate. He rose half an inch above the table rim and fired three precise shots.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two bodies hit the marble floor with heavy, sickening thuds.
“Move! Now!” Vincent grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet and dragging me through the service corridors behind the kitchen.
Gunfire echoed behind us as Luke and the Hayes security detail engaged the attackers in a ferocious firefight in the main hall. The smell of sulfur, ozone, and copper filled the air.
We burst through the kitchen doors, running past overturned prep tables and abandoned cookware. My high heels slipped on spilled oil, and I stumbled, falling hard onto one knee. The silk of my dress tore along the seam.
“I’ve got you,” Vincent said instantly, catching me under the arms and hoisting me up effortlessly.
Suddenly, the kitchen service doors at the far end of the hallway were kicked open.
Three men in black tactical gear and balaclavas stood in the doorway, their assault rifles raised directly at my chest.
“Target secured!” one of them yelled.
There was no time to seek cover. There was nowhere to run.
Without a microsecond of hesitation, Vincent stepped entirely in front of me, using his own body as a human shield.
Crack! Crack!
A bullet grazed Vincent’s shoulder, tearing through his tuxedo, while a second round struck him squarely in the lower right side of his abdomen.
Vincent let out a guttural grunt of pain, stumbling backward against me, but he raised his weapon and fired four rapid shots through the smoke. The three mercenaries collapsed into a heap in the doorway.
“Vincent!” I screamed, catching his heavy frame as his legs gave out.
We sank together to the tiled floor. Blood—dark, hot, and copious—was rapidly soaking through his white dress shirt, staining the front of my emerald gown.
“Vincent, oh God, you’re hit!” My hands trembled violently as I pressed them against the wound on his abdomen, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood.
Vincent coughed, a thin trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth, but his gray eyes remained fiercely locked on mine. He reached up, his bloodstained hand cupping my cheek.
“Are you... hurt?” he choked out, his voice strained and shallow.
“I’m fine! You idiot, you took a bullet for me!” Tears streamed down my face, dripping onto his shirt. “Why did you do that?!”
Vincent gave a faint, bloody smile, his eyelids fluttering.
“Because... you’re mine, Claire,” he whispered weakly. “I keep... my promises.”
His head lolled to the side, and his eyes slipped shut as his body went completely limp in my arms.
“Vincent! Vincent, wake up!” I screamed, pressing down harder on his bleeding wound as darkness threatened to swallow us both.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor. Luke and three armed guards burst through the smoke, weapons smoking, eyes wide with horror as they saw their fallen leader.
“Boss is down!” Luke yelled into his radio, sprinting toward us. “Get the trauma unit to the underground dock! Move, move, move!”
Luke scooped Vincent up into his arms, while two other guards flanked me, pulling me to my feet.
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As we sprinted toward the underground getaway vehicles, I gripped the emerald necklace around my throat, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. The ruthless mafia don who ruled Chicago with an iron fist had just traded his life for mine.
And I realized, with terrifying clarity, that I was hopelessly in love with him.
