Chapter 17
GABBY
One week later…
“You sent it.”
Angie’s sentence comes out as a statement, not a question. Whatever it is, I don’t want to think about it.
Sunlight slides across the chalkboard menu outside of Le James. A barista with sleeve tattoos is tamping espresso with total focus. The place is abuzz, and it’s exactly the energy I need right now—nice and distracting.
“I sent it,” I say, a little breathless admitting it out loud. “My future is now a PDF printed out in Sasha’s office.”
Her eyes soften. “Then we breathe. Let a certain CEO admire the work.”
“If he’s smart,” I say. “I’ve been spending the last week working on his corrections and tweaks. If he doesn’t like this draft, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The truth of the matter is that it’s been kind of nice to throw myself into work. I’ve been under heavy guard since the attempt on my life, so being able to totally focus on the next proposal draft has been a welcome distraction.
The barista comes over, setting down our two lattes. “This one’s the decaf,” she says as she places the mugs on the table, the foam decorated with little cat faces.
I pull my mug close, lifting it, and taking a sip.
“Still can’t get used to you doing decaf,” Angie says, shaking her head. “And I’ve got no idea how you managed all of this sober as hell.”
God, I so want to tell her about the baby. But I made a decision about that—once the proposal is approved, I’ll tell her the news.
“It’s actually helping me stay focused and steady, believe it or not,” I say. “Fewer ups and downs.”
She sips her coffee, then leans in. “Okay, so is this it? Your part in the merger is done?”
“Assuming he approves of the work—and that’s a big assumption, knowing him—then… yeah, that’s it. He takes the proposal to Johan, who looks it over, then decides whether he wants to move forward or not.”
“And you think that’s going to happen?”
“That’s the rumor. Only a few people know about this, but word is that Johan is eager to merge and make some serious money.”
“And what happens if he says no?”
I glance over my shoulder, pointing to the AngelCorp tower behind us. “You see that office on the very, very top?”
“Sure do. That’s where the man himself dwells.”
“Well, if this doesn’t get through, then Sasha is going to toss my ass out of that window.”
She snorts, spitting out a little coffee. When she recovers, Angie wipes her mouth, shaking her head. “I doubt he’d do that—he likes you too much.”
“Only because I haven’t screwed this thing up for him yet.”
“Well, here’s hoping,” she says. “Johan Morozov isn’t his father. He’s measured. If this is a good deal, he’ll take it.”
“You say that like you know him,” I tease.
She shrugs. “I read. A lot. I mean, you’re not the only one working at AngelCorp, you know. Pays to be aware of these kinds of things.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.”
I open my email, looking for the email with the subject Dandelion—Offer v12 FINAL. The first few drafts had been all fancy in the binders, but after a million change requests by Sasha, I’ve been doing it all digitally. Hopefully, he’s reading it right now.
When I put down my phone, I glance up to see Angie looking away, turning her attention to something outside the window. Her lips are pursed, and she looks preoccupied. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that she’s keeping something from me.
I really want to know, whatever it is. But I stop myself from pushing—what would be worse than trying to get her to dish when I’ve got a major secret of my own?
“Anyway,” she says, “mind talking me through this report a little? If it goes through, I’m going to need to be fluent in it for my own damn job.”
“Sure.”
We talk through the proposal, and I’m in mid-riff on liquidity windows when my phone buzzes with an unknown number. I decline without thinking. A shiver runs through me. Something’s off.
A matte-black sedan glides past the windows, just a shade too slowly. The steam wand hisses at the counter. A couple laughs. Angie checks her watch, then the door, then me, like she’s waiting for someone.
“How’s home?” she asks. “Can’t be all bad in the penthouse.”
“Five-star prison.”
She purses her lips again, then reaches over to grab my hand. “Hey, after what happened, I can’t really blame Sasha for keeping you safe. If someone’s looking to get you…”
“I know, I know. But sti—”
Something pops outside. Could be a truck backfiring.
I don’t flinch, but Angie’s head snaps toward the window.
The black sedan slides back into frame and the passenger window drops.
There’s a glint of something silver, and I freeze as soon as I see it.
Angie’s eyes flash, then she rises from her chair just enough to reach forward and hook her hand around the back of my neck and pull me down.
I tumble, my cheek hitting the tile. The table rattles, the mugs fall and shatter.
Pop, pop, pop.
The first shot punches a hole the size of a quarter through the front window. The second shatters the glass. Someone shouts. Someone else screams.
Pop…pop-pop…pop.
“Down,” Angie says, her voice flat, like she’s done this a million times before. She wedges herself against me, a human shield in a blazer.
Three more shots. The room is a chorus of screams and shouts as people duck for cover from the gunfire. My heart tries to kick out through my ribs. My mind goes right to the baby, and I clamp my palm over my abdomen like I could protect him or her with just my hand.
The door explodes open. A tall shadow slices across the floor.
Bogdan.
He doesn’t look at us. He’s already moving, already drawing, already sighting.
Two shots—controlled, precise. I can’t see where he shoots, but I sure as hell can hear it.
The first shot hits something metal. The second, a tire.
He takes one more shot, and I hear the sound of something hitting glass.
I rise just a bit, high enough to see outside. The sedan fishtails. For one glorious, almost cartoonish second, it looks like it’s going to eat a light pole. But it straightens at the last minute and screams away. One tire’s flat; the back windshield is a mess of spiderweb cracks.
Silence hits the café like a wave. Then, a sob. The slow clink of a cup rolling. A barista, voice shaking, “Everyone—please—stay low—are you okay?”
I plop into a sitting position. Angie’s next to me, breathing hard but steadily. I spot an older man by the window, a long cut on his arm. Near him, a girl is picking glittering specks out of her sleeve with shaking hands.
Thank God, it doesn’t look like anyone was hit or hurt too badly.
Bogdan steps into our line of sight and scans the room.
“Stay away from the windows,” he says, calm, clipped. “Move to the back. Now.”
He says something in Russian into the comm at his shoulder, then his eyes lock back to mine. I nod.
He takes out his phone, dials a number. “Le James Café, multiple shots fired. Westbound sedan. Two visible injuries, minor—glass cuts. Shooter window down passenger side. We need units now.”
The fury hits hot and clean. Someone tried to kill me.
Again.
Someone tried to kill my baby.
Bogdan returns, crouches next to Angie and me. “Come on—we’re leaving.”
“This is our place,” I say, useless, childish.
“Not anymore,” he says, his tone not unkind. “Come on. Back hallway. You too, blondie.”
“Blondie?” Angie retorts.
“Be nice,” I say. “She might’ve saved my life.”
He shepherds us along the bar, around a crying barista, past a man buttoning his coat with shaking fingers.
The glass crunches under my shoes like ice.
My ears ring. The delivery alley is a corridor of dumpsters and cold air.
Three minutes later, a black SUV glides up to us. We climb in, and the doors thud shut.
“Random?” I ask, my voice ragged, already knowing the answer.
“No,” Bogdan says.
“Were they aiming at us?” Angie asks. “Her? Who?”
“Let’s get you both safe first.”
I squeeze my knees until my palms hurt. The secret under my skin presses back.
“Does he know?” I ask.
“He does.”
The car’s speaker crackles. “Gabriella.” Sasha’s voice—low, contained, dangerous.
“My fan club sent flowers,” I say, because I’m an idiot who has to make a bad joke to ease the tension.
“Stay with Bogdan,” Sasha says. “Do not deviate. Now is not the time for anything dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” I ask, a little scandalized. “Since when am I—”
“Stay with him. I’ll be in soon.”
The line clicks, and that’s the end of it.
Angie watches me. “You okay?”
“I have to be.”