12. Chapter Twelve #2
The spell snaps.
I remain on my knees while she turns toward the counter.
She reaches for the tequila bottle.
I rise and place my hand over it before she can pour.
“You’ve had your ritual.”
Her eyes meet mine.
For one second, I expect a fight.
Instead, she releases the bottle.
Then she looks at my mouth one final time before walking toward the door.
She disappears into the corridor without another word.
Only after she’s gone do I remember how to breathe.
I drag both hands through my hair and grip the roots.
I’m beyond fucked.
The roar of the crowd is almost deafening.
There may be only a little over a hundred fans inside the theater, but they produce enough noise to fill an arena.
I stand in the shadows near the stage entrance while Simone adjusts her in-ear monitors and rolls her shoulders like a fighter preparing to enter the ring.
I’ve never attended one of her concerts.
Not really.
I knew she performed.
I knew her career had grown rapidly.
But I never paid enough attention to what that meant.
The moment Simone walks onto the stage, the crowd erupts.
She smiles into the lights and raises her microphone.
The woman I grew up with disappears.
I don’t see Bran’s spoiled little sister.
I don’t see the woman who tests my patience and treats boundaries like personal challenges.
I see an artist.
Someone who built this world with her own hands.
Someone who worked for every scream, every lyric sung back to her, and every person looking at her as though she changed their life.
She’s radiant.
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
The first notes of her opening song roll through the theater.
Her fans sing with her.
They hold handmade signs above their heads.
WE LOVE YOU, SIM.
YOU SAVED ME.
MAKE IT HURT.
I’m stunned.
I’ve always known music matters to her.
I never understood how much she matters to the people listening.
Charlie stands near me, watching the stage with undisguised pride.
“It doesn’t matter how often I see her perform,” he says. “She was born for this.”
He folds his arms.
“She has real talent. It’s a shame so many people assume she bought her career with her last name.”
The comment irritates me more than it should.
I understand now why canceling the tour devastated her.
Francis supported her, but he didn’t build this.
She did.
The songs.
The rehearsals.
The relationship with the people screaming her name.
This belongs to Simone.
And she gives herself to it without reservation.
Watching her is addictive.
She moves as though the stage is the only place where she is completely free.
Confident.
Untouchable.
Alive.
For several dangerous seconds, I become absorbed in her.
Then training pulls my attention away.
I scan the audience.
The center aisle.
The emergency exits.
The upper gallery.
Security remains in position. The barrier between the fans and the stage is clear.
Nothing appears out of place.
My eyes return to Simone.
Movement flashes above her.
A brief reflection from the restricted lighting platform.
Metal.
My pulse spikes.
I focus on the upper level.
A figure crouches behind the railing where no one should be.
Something long and dark angles toward the stage.
“Weapon, north lighting platform,” I bark into my microphone. “Principal is exposed. Lock it down.”
I’m already moving.
I shove past two technicians and sprint toward the stage entrance.
Simone stands beneath the lights, smiling as sweat glitters across her skin.
She can’t hear me over the crowd.
“Simone!”
The weapon shifts.
A muzzle flash cuts through the darkness.
The first shot shatters a stage light.
Screams explode from the audience.
Simone stops singing.
Confusion crosses her face as people begin pushing toward the exits.
“Get down!”
I reach the stage at a dead sprint.
Another gunshot cracks through the theater.
I hit Simone around the waist and drive both of us to the floor.
She gasps my name.
A bullet strikes the stage behind us, tearing through equipment.
Security floods the front rows while the evacuation alarm begins to sound.
I cover Simone with my body.
“North platform,” I repeat into the radio. “Armed suspect. Clear civilians and contain the exits.”
I tighten one arm around Simone and lift her.
“We’re moving.”
She clings to me as I carry her toward the wings.
Her body trembles violently.
“I’ve got you,” I say against her hair. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
I don’t know whether it’s true.
I only know I’ll make it true or die trying.
The backstage corridors have descended into chaos.
Crew members run toward emergency exits while security officers move in the opposite direction.
I keep Simone low and shielded against me.
“Principal moving to extraction,” I report. “South backstage corridor.”
“North team pursuing,” someone answers through my earpiece. “Suspect moving toward the service stairs.”
I ignore the pursuit.
My job is Simone.
Only Simone.
I reach the rear exit, scan the alley, and move her toward the armored SUV waiting beside the curb.
Police sirens are already approaching.
I open the passenger door and guide her inside.
Then I check her.
Head.
Neck.
Torso.
Arms.
My hands move quickly over her body, searching for blood.
She winces when I touch her upper arm.
I stop.
A shallow groove cuts across the outer flesh.
Blood runs in thin streams toward her elbow.
My stomach drops.
The bullet touched her.
It fucking touched her.
“It’s only a graze,” she says breathlessly.
She looks beyond me toward the theater.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I said I’m fine.”
She tries to move.
I brace one hand against her shoulder.
“Stay still.”
My voice comes out harsher than I intend.
I retrieve the compact trauma kit stored beneath my jacket and tear open a packet of sterile gauze.
The wound isn’t deep.
The bleeding isn’t arterial.
Knowing that does nothing to quiet the rage burning through me.
I press the gauze against her arm.
She hisses.
“Sorry.”
The word feels useless.
I secure a pressure dressing around the injury, careful not to pull it too tightly.
My fingers tremble once.
Only once.
Simone notices.
Her expression changes.
“Luca…”
“I was watching you instead of the room.”
“What?”
I secure the final edge of the bandage.
“I saw the weapon.”
“You got to me.”
“Not before he fired.”
Her uninjured hand closes around my wrist.
“You got to me.”
I look at her fingers against my skin.
Then at the blood staining the gauze.
It isn’t enough.
I should have seen the shooter earlier.
I should have prevented him from firing at all.
I climb behind the wheel.
“Principal extracted,” I say into my radio. “Minor gunshot wound. We’re heading to St. Joseph’s.”
“The suspect hasn’t been apprehended,” the response comes. “Authorities are securing the building.”
My jaw locks.
The shooter escaped the platform.
Again.
Simone leans back against the seat, pale beneath her makeup.
Her hand remains pressed against the bandage.
I start the engine.
Nothing matters except getting her to the hospital.
Not the shooter.
Not the venue.
Not the fact that I was on my knees in front of her less than an hour ago, wanting things I have no right to want.
She was standing beneath the lights, alive and brilliant.
Someone tried to take that from her.
The rage rising inside me is cold now.
Controlled.
Useful.
Whoever is targeting the Rochefort family has moved from Francis to Simone.
And I’m going to find them before they get another chance.