The darkness in the ballroom was absolute for a heartbeat, followed by the deafening crash of the crystal ceiling. Shards of glass rained down like diamonds made of ice.
"Stay down!" Lorenzo's voice roared over the sudden screams of the elite guests.
He didn't just tell her to hide—he used his own body as a shield. Amara felt the heavy weight of his tuxedo jacket press against her as he tackled her to the polished floor. A large piece of glass sliced through the air where her head had been a second before, embedding itself into the table beside them.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound of suppressed gunfire echoed through the hall. Muzzle flashes flickered like strobe lights, revealing glimpses of men in tactical gear rappelling from the broken roof.
"Lorenzo!" Amara shrieked, her hands over her ears.
"Quiet," he hissed. He pulled a second gun from an ankle holster and handed it to her. "Do you know how to use this?"
Amara stared at the cold metal. "No! I've never even held one!"
"Point and pull the trigger if anyone who isn't me touches you," he said, his eyes scanning the room with terrifying focus. He didn't look scared; he looked like he was in his natural element.
He stood up slightly, firing three precise shots into the balcony. A man fell, tumbling over the gold railing and crashing onto the dance floor.
"We have to move. Now," Lorenzo commanded. He grabbed her hand, his grip crushing, and pulled her toward the service exits.
They ran through the chaos. Amara's midnight-blue dress was torn, the crystals snapping off and scattering like seeds. They burst through the kitchen doors just as a grenade detonated in the ballroom behind them. The blast threw them forward, the heat scorching the air.
Lorenzo rolled to his feet and hauled Amara up. His face was streaked with soot, and a small cut on his cheek was bleeding, but his gaze was steady.
"The main cars are a trap," Lorenzo muttered, more to himself than her. "We take the service van."
They reached the loading dock, where a plain gray van was waiting. Lorenzo threw her into the passenger seat and jumped behind the wheel. He floored it, the tires screaming as they smashed through the wooden security gate.
As the hotel faded into the distance, Amara looked back. The Blackstone was glowing with fire.
"You knew," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You knew they would attack."
Lorenzo didn't look at her. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I knew they would try. I didn't think Silvio would be suicidal enough to do it in front of the whole city."
He reached over and grabbed her hand, his thumb tracing the gold GPS pendant. "Are you hurt?"
"I... I don't think so," she breathed, looking at the blood on his shirt. "Lorenzo, you're bleeding."
"It's not mine," he said coldly.
He turned the van onto a dark, unmarked road, heading away from the city lights.
"Where are we going?" Amara asked. "Back to the mansion?"
"No," Lorenzo said, his jaw tight. "The mansion isn't safe anymore. Someone told them where we would be sitting. Someone I trust."
He looked at her then, his gray eyes dark with a lethal promise. "We're going to the safe house. And when I find out who betrayed us, I'll make sure they wish they had died in that ballroom."
The King has been betrayed! Now that you've seen the escape, would you like to revisit Chapter 9: The Safe House to see the tension boil over between them?