Chapter 7 - Shattered Truce
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Damian reacted instantly. He lunged forward, wrapping his broad arms around Wren’s waist and tackling her to the carpet just as a spray of heavy machine-gun fire tore through the wall where they had been standing milliseconds before.
Wood splinters and plaster rained down on them.
Below, the grand ballroom exploded into absolute chaos. Screams of horror, breaking crystal, and heavy gunfire echoed through the high ceilings of Wexley Hall. The winter truce was dead.
Dario Bellini, still paralyzed on the floor, groaned as a stray bullet shattered the vase three inches above his head.
Damian rolled off Wren, pulling two customized black handguns from his hidden shoulder holsters with lethal speed. He checked the magazines with two swift motions.
"Moretti," Damian growled, his jaw clenching as his eyes turned to pure ice. "The bastard used the gala to gather all the East Coast bosses into one room."
He turned to look at Wren, expecting to see her cowering or looking for an exit.
Instead, Wren was already on her feet. She had ripped off her stained apron, tossing it to the floor. Underneath the uniform dress, her movements were fluid, aggressive, and entirely focused.
She reached down, unholstered a small, sleek pistol from Dario Bellini’s belt, racked the slide with one hand, and looked down at Damian with a cold, terrifying smirk.
"He picked a terrible night for an ambush," Wren said, her voice dripping with lethal grace.
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Damian stared at her, a dark, ferocious grin spreading across his face. "Can you shoot as well as you strike, phantom?"
"Try not to get in my way, Ricci," she replied.
