Chapter 4
Not A Water Pistol
Hannah
It all happens too fast to make sense.
One moment, I’m half-collapsed on the bench, my mouth sour, Damian’s arms locked around me like he’s anchoring me to the earth.
The next—
People are screaming.
A gunshot cracks through the air.
Damian doesn’t hesitate. He presses me to him and drops us both to the floor, rolling us under the table. The white tablecloth spills down around us, a thin, useless veil.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I glance down and see something silver flash in his hand.
“Damian,” I hiss, every nerve lighting up.
“Shh.” His voice is calm. Way too calm.
He presses himself flat to the floor and inches forward, peering out from beneath the tablecloth like this is just another Tuesday night.
“Damian,” I whisper again, panic crawling up my spine.
“What?” he mutters, still peeking from beneath the tablecloth.
“Is that a gun?” My voice drops to a wobble. “Like…a real gun?”
Because now that I’m actually looking at it—it totally is.
Small. Sleek. Heavy-looking. The kind even I could fire if I absolutely lost my mind.
“Well,” he says mildly, not turning around, “it’s not a water pistol.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
“But why?” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from the cold gleam of metal in his hand.
“Because Marco is a drug dealer—”
“What?!”
“With Mafia ties—”
“WHAT?!”
“And I think,” he adds calmly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “we just got caught in a turf war.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
My brain has fully blue-screened.
Another body dives under the table. A knee slams into my fingers, crushing them.
“Ouch!” I hiss, yanking my hand back.
Marco.
He’s leaning against me. Cowering. I shove him hard. “Move over.”
He glances down, like he’s just now noticing me. “Oh. Sorry.” He shuffles on his knees farther under the cover of the table.
He sees the gun in Damian’s hand. “Know how to use that?” Marco grunts.
Damian nods. “I used to go to the firing range, although—uh, it’s been a while.” He hesitates, then says more confidently, “I was pretty good, though, so yeah. I know how to use it.”
Marco lets out a shaky breath.
Damian turns his head and lands a glare on Marco. His eyes are cold. “If you think I’m killing someone to protect you,” he says evenly, “you’re out of your fucking mind.”
My pulse stutters.
Marco swallows, so loudly I can hear it.
“My only goal,” Damian continues, voice low and deadly calm, “is getting her out of here.”
He gestures toward me.
To my absolute horror, he lifts the gun and presses it right to Marco’s forehead.
Marco freezes. Hands shoot up. He doesn’t even breathe.
“You,” Damian says quietly, “I’d kill. For dragging her into this. For putting Hannah at risk.”
Marco’s voice cracks. “Hey—hey, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d come here tonight. I swear.”
Damian’s trigger finger tightens.
Marco whimpers.
And then—
“Damian.”
My voice is small. Hoarse. Still wrecked from the reaction, from the vomiting, from the terror lodged in my chest.
But it’s enough. His head snaps toward me instantly. Not sharp. Not angry.
Worried.
“What?” he whispers, urgency threading through the word.
I reach out and grab the sleeve of his jacket, my fingers curling into the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Like he is.
“You’re scaring me,” I say softly. Not accusing. Just honest. “Please don’t do that.”
His breath stutters.
The gun lowers a fraction of an inch.
I look at his face, really look at him. The tension carved into his jaw. The panic he’s holding back with brute force and sheer will. He doesn’t look like a killer.
He looks like a man on the brink of losing it.
“I know you’re trying to protect me,” I whisper. “I know. But I’m okay. I’m right here.”
Another beat.
Damian exhales, long and shaky, like he’s been holding his breath.
The gun drops fully.
He presses his forehead to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s reining himself back in from somewhere dark. I notice the way his chest heaves, how he’s shaking slightly. It reminds me of back in the car, how he almost had a full-blown panic attack.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. To me.
Not Marco. Never Marco.
“It’s okay,” I say, tugging on his shirt to pull him off the floor and back onto his heels. I rub my hand up and down his arm until I feel his breathing slow. His tremors subside. “You did good.”
He looks at me.
And in his eyes, I see it. The relief. The terror. The tenderness.
The man behind the weapon.
Behind us, Marco lets out a breath he definitely doesn’t deserve.
Damian looks over at him, all warmth gone again.
“Don’t move,” he says flatly.
He turns back to me, his voice softer than I thought it could be in a moment like this.
“Stay close to me, Hannah. Okay?”
I nod and grab his sleeve, digging my fingers in.
I won’t let go.
Damian
Outside the table, the restaurant is unraveling.
Glass shatters somewhere to my left, sharp, violent. A woman screams, high and piercing, the sound slicing straight through my skull. Chairs scrape and topple as people scatter, bodies colliding in blind panic. Someone trips. Someone else cries out.
Another gunshot cracks through the room.
Closer.
A bullet slams into the bar, bottles exploding in a rain of liquor and glass. The smell of alcohol floods the air, sweet and acrid and choking.
“Everybody down!” someone shouts.
I hear footsteps pounding, followed by a table flipping over with a thunderous crash. Silverware clatters across the floor.
Hannah flinches beside me.
I shift closer without thinking, angling my body between her and the open space beyond the tablecloth. If anything comes this way, it hits me first.
Marco presses himself flat to the floor, muttering something frantically under his breath—prayers, maybe. Or apologies. I don’t care.
There’s shouting, angry, sharp, unfamiliar voices barking orders in a language I don’t recognize.
My grip tightens on the gun.
I glance at Hannah again. Her skin is still flushed, her breathing not quite right.
“We’re leaving,” I murmur close to her ear. “Soon as there’s an opening.”
I risk a look. The restaurant is nearly empty now. Everyone’s fled. Only a few men remain, wearing mud-splattered boots and heavy coats. All wrong for a place like this.
Marco crawls up beside me, lifts the tablecloth an inch, and peers out. “Shit. It’s the Bratva.”
“Who?”
“Russian Mafia,” he says, grimacing. “I might owe them some money.”
I swear, shaking my head. “Do you even have a gun?”
He scrubs his hand over his face and admits, “I left it in my jacket…at the coat check.”
I curse under my breath, keeping it low so I don’t scare Hannah. Then I shove the gun into Marco’s chest. “Count how many of them are out there.”
He fumbles it, fingers slick with sweat. “Why?” he hisses. “What are you doing?”
I roll onto my side and dig my phone out of my pocket.
“I’m sure the cops are already on the way,” Marco whispers, peering at the screen.
“I’m not calling the police, you idiot.”
I press my thumb to unlock it, the familiar interface flaring to life. This phone stopped being a phone a long time ago. I’ve spent the last year turning it into something else entirely. Now it’s got custom programs, layered access, amped-up power. A portable problem-solver.
Hannah scoots up on my other side. “What’s going on?” she whispers.
“Get back!” I bark at her, my panic flaring. “Behind me. Stay hidden.”
She narrows her eyes at me and hisses, “Screw you, Damian. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ugh. So fucking stubborn.
Before I can argue, a voice carries across the restaurant, smooth, amused, thick with a Russian accent. “Marco, oh, Marco. Where are you?” He laughs. “I know,” he says. “Let’s play a game. I say Marco. You say Polo.”
Other voices join in his laughter. Male voices, deep and rough.
“How many?” I ask Marco without looking up, as my fingers fly over the cool screen of my phone.
“Five—no,” he whispers, lifting the tablecloth an inch. “Six.”
Hannah’s breath hitches. “That’s…that’s a lot, right?”
“It could be worse,” Marco states.
I glare at him.
“Yeah,” he concedes. “It’s bad.”
Hannah stares at him, shaking her head in disgust. “I can’t believe I almost went out with you.” She shudders.
“Marco,” the voice calls again.
“Polo,” the men answer in unison. They laugh, maniacal.
There’s the sound of chairs being pushed aside.
Of tables being turned over. They’re searching for Marco.
Not in a random, chaotic way. No, this is organized, systematic.
It’s only a matter of time before they get to us, in the very back of the room.
My fingers fly, but my mind is already leaps and bounds ahead.
Marco watches my hands move. “What’re you doing?” He leans in, trying to see my screen.
I tilt it away instinctively.
“This is not the time to check Instagram,” he mutters.
Hannah leans in too, but I don’t hide it from her.
“What is that?” she whispers. “I’ve never seen that app before.”
“I’m working.”
She blinks. “You’re working? During a Mafia shootout?”
Something crashes nearby. All three of us flinch.
“It’s a program I built,” I say quietly. “I can access public utilities. At least…I think I can.”
“You think?” she whispers.
“I’m a programmer,” I say. Then, more quietly, “And a hacker.”
She stares at me.
“Banks hire me to protect their systems,” I add quickly. “But I do other things too. Fix problems.”
“You mean like—”
“Mrs. Sewart downstairs,” I say.
Hannah blinks. “The one who smells like mothballs?”
“She keeps forgetting to pay her bills,” I mutter. “I was trying to permanently turn her heat and electricity on.”
“Trying?” Hannah echoes.
“I hadn’t cracked it yet,” I admit. “Every test failed.”
A table tips over nearby.
Marco squeaks. “Buddy, if you’ve got a plan—”
“Marco!” the men shout. “Polo!”
They’re close now.
“But earlier,” I say, fingers flying, “in the car with you, I realized the problem. Manhattan isn’t one system. It’s millions. I need a wider net.”
“Damian—” Hannah warns.