The first scream came between violin notes.
For a heartbeat, I thought the music had simply cracked—then crystal shattered, men shouted, and the chandeliers trembled. The wedding reception dissolved into chaos. Guests scattered like spilled pearls. Someone yelled for cover. Someone else fired back.
Gunfire.
It echoed off the marble and gold until it felt like the walls themselves were bleeding.
I froze near the edge of the ballroom, clutching the skirt of my red gown. My father's voice barked orders, guards shoved people toward the exits, and amid the swirl of panic stood Adrian DeLuca calm as sin. His gray eyes swept the room, calculating angles, exits, threats.
"Down!" he ordered, and I obeyed before I could think. A bullet tore through the centerpiece behind me, scattering roses and glass across the floor.
The smell of smoke filled my lungs. I crawled under the long banquet table, heart hammering. Shadows moved between flashes of muzzle fire. I could taste fear in the back of my throat.
Then I saw him again, Adrian, striding through the chaos like he owned the bullets. He pulled a man in front of him, used him as cover, fired two shots, dropped him, kept moving. Efficient. Lethal. Beautiful in the most terrible way.
A figure rose behind him, gun raised.
I didn't think. My body moved before my mind caught up. I threw myself out from under the table and slammed into Adrian's shoulder.
The shot went off. Heat ripped across my arm sharp, blinding. I gasped as I hit the floor with him, the world spinning in bursts of light and noise.
When I opened my eyes, his face hovered over mine, jaw tight, eyes wild with fury.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" he shouted over the ringing in my ears. His hands were already on me, searching for the wound. His touch was rough, panicked.
"I...he was behind you.." I winced as his fingers brushed the burn along my upper arm. The fabric was torn and damp.
"Stay still." His voice softened just enough to make my stomach twist.
The shooting above us quieted into distant echoes. Adrian barked orders to someone I couldn't see. "Secure the exits. No one leaves until I say."
He turned back to me, expression unreadable now. Blood streaked my sleeve. His, maybe. Mine. It didn't matter.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
I nodded even though my knees felt like paper. He rose first, offered his hand. I hesitated a second too long, but he didn't wait; he simply grabbed my wrist and hauled me up, keeping me close against his chest as he moved.
We stepped over bodies. Some groaned. Some didn't. The scent of cordite and champagne clung to everything. My crimson gown dragged through it like a flag.
He led me out a side corridor, up the stairs, and into a quieter world the private wing of the mansion. Guards lined the hall, tense but silent. Adrian's grip on me never loosened.
When we reached a heavy oak door, he pushed it open with his shoulder. "Inside."
I hesitated. "Where's my father?"
He gave me a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Alive. For now. Go."
I went.
The room beyond was all dark wood and shadow, lit only by the flicker of a fireplace. My arm throbbed. I sat on the edge of a leather chaise, trying not to bleed on it. My head buzzed from adrenaline.
Adrian closed the door and stripped off his jacket. His white shirt was speckled with blood. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with tension.
"Sit still," he said again. "Doctor's on his way."
"No." The word left me before I thought it through. "No strangers."
His brows rose. "You'd rather bleed out on my floor?"
"I'd rather not have another of your men near me."
Something flickered behind his eyes something like guilt, quickly buried. He sighed and knelt beside me. "Fine. I'll do it myself."
He reached for a small first-aid kit in the cabinet, opened it, and set out gauze, alcohol, scissors. The smell of antiseptic replaced smoke. He cut the fabric away from the wound with steady hands. When the cool air touched my skin, I flinched.
"It's a graze," he muttered, voice low. "Lucky."
"Not luck," I whispered. "Instinct."
His eyes lifted to mine. "Instinct gets people killed."
"Then why aren't you dead?" I shot back.
For a long moment he just looked at me, eyes unreadable. Then he dipped the gauze in antiseptic and began cleaning the wound. His touch was careful now, almost reverent. The silence between us buzzed like electricity.
When he finished, he wrapped my arm with crisp precision, his knuckles brushing the inside of my elbow. My pulse betrayed me fast, shallow. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Done," he said, but he didn't move away.
I could feel the warmth of him, the controlled power barely hidden under his calm. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning gray into silver. My throat went dry.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said quietly. "Taking a bullet for me."
"I didn't think about you," I said. "I just saw the gun."
He gave a rough laugh, more like a growl. "That's worse."
"Why? Because it means I didn't care?"
"Because it means you're dangerous."
I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt… alive. Every nerve in my body hummed from the nearness of him. I wanted to move away but couldn't.
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a murmur. "You're not what I expected, Isabella Moretti."
"Neither are you."
Our eyes locked. The air thickened, heavy with unspoken things. His gaze dropped to my mouth. I forgot how to breathe.
Then someone knocked. "Boss," a guard called from outside, muffled. "Perimeter's clear. One attacker captured, two dead."
Adrian exhaled slowly, pulling himself back. The moment broke. "Keep him alive," he ordered, voice cold again. "I want names."
When the door shut, silence returned.
"You should rest," he said, standing. "I'll post guards outside this room."
I swallowed. "To protect me or to keep me from running?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He walked to the door, paused, then looked back at me. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes again something softer, dangerous in its own way. "You saved my life tonight."
"Don't mention it," I said, trying to sound steady. "It was an accident."
He almost smiled. Almost. "You keep telling yourself that."
Then he was gone.
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until the click of the door echoed through the room. I sank back into the couch, heart pounding, every image of the night flashing through my head the gunfire, his hands on me, the way his voice had trembled for half a second when he saw blood.
I should hate him. I do hate him. But there's something worse than hate creeping under my skin, something that feels too much like curiosity.
I stood, crossed to the bed, and froze.
A single red rose lay across the pillow. Its petals were dark, its stem wet, a thin streak of dried blood along one thorn.
My fingers hovered over it but didn't touch.
From the other side of the door came his voice, low enough that I almost thought I imagined it.
"You saved my life," he said. "Don't make me regret it."
Footsteps faded down the hall.
The rose watched me from the pillow, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I wasn't sure who the real danger was, Adrian DeLuca or the part of me that wanted to believe he could be saved.