Page 81 of Pas de Trois
She reaches and latches her fingers around his wrist—the hand that holds the gun he was just starting to lift. She pulls back on his arm viciously, but is forced to let go and jump back when he whips around, shaking her grip from his wrist, and aiming the gun at her head.
She screams, throwing her hands up in front of her face as she sinks at the knees. The memory of Nikolai holding her at gunpoint just before he sold her to Vigo flashes across my mind and my body trembles with a pulse of adrenaline. “No!” I shout.
But then Lorenzo swings the gun around aiming at my head. My eyes widen as I watch it all happen in a blur.
He presses the barrel to the center of my forehead.
He cocks it…and pulls the trigger.
.
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.
.
.
A click, then silence.
Silence from everyone except for Anya’s piercing scream.
I gasp for a breath. If it weren’t for the authenticity of my blue-eyed girl’s scream, I’d believe I’d died and gone to hell—the same hell I’ve been living with the four families.
But I’m not in literal hell. I’m alive because the gun misfired. A violent sob bursts from Anya with her eyes squeezed shut. But then I see her features soften as she realizes she didn’t hear the gunfire, either. I stare her down, willing her to open her eyes and look at me because I can’t stand to see her this broken.
I can’t die. I can’t leave her here alone.
Lorenzo swears and Renata yells at him. He pops open the chamber to check for rounds and in a flash, Anya is in front of me—she jumps in front of me as a human shield for the next round and my heart disintegrates into ash.
“Anya, move,” I plead, gripping her skirt with my bound hands, and tugging to get her attention. “Move, baby, please.”
She only shakes her head. “He can’t harm me,” she whispers. “I’m a Mikhailov.” She lifts her chin. Even from behind her, I can see the tracks of tears streaming down the side of her cheek, streaking black streams from her make-up.
Lorenzo pushes the chamber back in and points the gun at her. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
“Move,” he tells her.
Anya’s voice is quiet power as she speaks through gritted teeth. “If Renata wants him dead, you’ll have to kill us both.” Her hands clench into shaking fists at her sides.
“I’ll happily arrange that,” Renata says, moving to stand beside Lorenzo.
Lorenzo steps forward, pushing the tip of the gun to Anya’s belly, threatening her, threatening me, but more urgently, threatening the baby.
Anya stiffens. A strange sort of fear grips me, and I know she feels it, too—except, hers morphs into a protective fury. She doesn’t scream and cower. She snarls, steels herself, straightens her spine, and pulls her shoulders back.
“I dare you,” she practically growls at Lorenzo. “Pull the trigger. Kill a Mikhailov and her son and see if that will put you any closer to taking over the family bloodline. We all know that’s what you want—for your Fiore name to be the one associated with the four families. We all know that’s why you serve Renata the way you do.”
His eyebrows raise and lower in surprise.
Olivia defies her order to stay in the bedroom and suddenly rushes out. “Stop!” she cries. “Why are you doing this?” Bravely, she wedges herself between Anya and the gun. She pushes Lorenzo’s hand away from her stomach by grabbing his wrist and shoving back on his chest. “Why are you doing this? She’s pregnant! They’re in love, Lorenzo…in love like you and me! Renata’s a liar. Why would he rape her? Stop this!”
Lorenzo looks at Olivia with a tilt of his head and drops his gun to the floor. The thud of it landing on the carpet makes us all flinch in fear that it might somehow go off. I watch in shock as he shoves Olivia back against the wall by her shoulders, shifting his anger to her instead of toward us. Olivia’s eyes pop wide as tears pour down her cheeks and she opens her mouth to defend herself.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I just…Lorenzo…d-don’t hurt them.” She puts her hands on his chest and grips the lapels of his jacket. “Please. This is insane. I was one of them. They’re no different than we are.”
