Page 72 of Auctioned Innocence
But I’m already moving.
Marco’s lessons echo in my head—assess, adapt, act—and I leap from the platform just as Dante launches himself toward me, his Russian disguise forgotten as pure predator takes over. Chairs scatter as he crashes through the crowd, his path a straight line to me despite the chaos erupting around us.
“Lights!” someone shouts. I catch a glimpse of Dante’s hand slamming into a control panel, and suddenly everything plungesinto darkness except for the red exit signs casting bloody shadows across the walls.
Then the windows explode inward.
Glass rains down like deadly confetti as dark figures rappel through the shattered openings. The Irish backup—right on schedule, even if the rest of the plan has gone to hell. Automatic weapons fire, muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness like deadly lightning.
Dante’s hand finds mine in the chaos, his grip strong and sure as he pulls me toward him. Even in the dark, even with hell breaking loose around us, his touch grounds me.
“Four o’clock,” I whisper urgently, my eyes already adjusted to the darkness, picking out threats the way Marco taught me. “Guard with shotgun, behind the overturned table.”
Dante just—moves. Fast. A grunt, a wet thud, and the guard goes down. I scramble for his shotgun, nearly fumble it because my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Since when do you—” Dante starts, surprise bleeding through his focus.
“Don’t insult me, Dante,” I snap as I chamber a round with practiced efficiency, the metallic sound sharp even over the chaos. “Down!”
He drops without question as I fire over his head, taking out a guard rushing us from behind. The kick reverberates through my arms like a punch, but I’m already moving, staying close to Dante as we push toward the exit. The guard crumples, his own weapon clattering across the marble floor.
“Christ,” Dante breathes, something like pride and terror warring in his voice. “I forgot how fucking scary you can be.”
“How could you forget? I was with you and Marco when Anthony tried to take Elena,” I retort, already scanning for our next threat.
The ballroom is pure chaos now—buyers crawling over each other to escape, guards firing at shadows, the Irish team systematically taking down security while shouting coordinates in accents so thick I can barely understand them. Emergency lighting kicks in, casting everything in hellish red.
A flash of silver catches my eye across the room—Maisie, struggling with Viktor near the main entrance. She’s fighting with everything she has, her ballroom training giving her moves Viktor clearly didn’t expect. She meets my gaze across the chaos, mouths something I can’t hear over the gunfire.
“Run!”I think she’s saying.“Get out!”
Then she drives her elbow back with vicious accuracy, catching Viktor in the solar plexus before rearing her head back and hitting him in the nose. He doubles over, and for a moment I think she’s going to break free?—
Viktor’s gun comes up.
The shot is impossibly loud, even in all this chaos.
“No!” The scream tears from my throat as Maisie crumples, red blooming across her silver dress like spilled wine. Beautiful, brave Maisie who tried to protect all of us, who believed in me that I could help her escape, who befriended me.
I start toward her, my feet moving before my brain catches up, but Dante’s arm locks around my waist like a steel band.
“Sofia, we can’t—” His voice is rough with his own grief, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“She’s my friend” I fight against his hold, the shotgun nearly slipping from my hands as tears well in my eyes. “She’s?—”
But even as I struggle, I can see the truth. Maisie’s eyes are already empty, staring at nothing. The girl who made breakfast conversations into intelligence briefings, who held us together when we wanted to break, who faced down Viktor with nothing but her dancer’s grace and a heart full of fire—she’s gone.
The rage that fills me is white-hot, pure, the kind that makes people do stupid things. I swing the shotgun toward Viktor, but he’s already moving, using Maisie’s body as cover while more of his men close in.
Movement to our left—I spin, weapon raised, but it’s Marco’s men providing cover as we fight our way toward the exit. Their gear is different from the Irish team, all black tactical wear and robotic movements.
“Others!” I shout to Dante over the gunfire. “What about the others?”
“Mario’s team has them!” he calls back, but I can hear the uncertainty in his voice. In this chaos, plans mean nothing. Anything could be happening to Jessica, Ava, Natalie, Zoe, Kira?—
A burst of automatic fire from the Irish team gives us an opening. I hear someone screaming orders about securing “the merchandise,” Madame Rouge’s voice cutting through the noise with the authority of someone who’s orchestrated atrocities before.
Not tonight. Not if I have anything to say about it.
