Chapter 19 Velvet and Gunfire #5
“Enough,” Viktor said. He did not give numbers. Numbers were useless in the middle of a slaughter. He took the next corner with the calculated calm of a man who had rehearsed this geometry more than once.
We ducked into a utility closet and slammed the metal door, breathing heavy in sudden, shared quiet.
I pressed my back to the cold metal and tried to feel the pieces of myself that stayed whole in violence.
Viktor lowered his gun and looked at me.
The red light made his eyes silver. He had a cut at his temple I had not seen take shape.
A thin line of blood glinted there. His hands were shaking just a fraction.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Da,” he lied because of course he lied as always. Then his mouth tightened and he added, “Almost.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to curl my fingers in his hair and pull his head down and kiss him like the world was ending and maybe it was.
Instead I tore off a strip of my cuff and tied it around his wound.
My hands were steady. He did not flinch.
He watched me with a wariness that made my chest ache.
“We should move,” he said, voice steady again.
We did not wait for permission. We pushed the door just enough to peek.
The corridor was a chaos of bodies and smoke, the emergency lights making everything look like a bad dream.
We timed it between two sweeps of enemy fire and bolted.
Viktor firing to clear the way, me taking out anyone who made the mistake of looking at me wrong.
I flipped off a railing, landed on my feet, and used a stunned guard as a shield while Viktor used a pistol grip to pound the man's head. The sound was the sound of survival.
We hit a door that led to a freight passage.
It opened into the alley behind the opera house.
Cold air slammed into us, clean and full of rain.
For an instant we were exposed; camera flashes from the red carpet area lit us up like a tableau.
A cluster of attackers hung back by the loading bays as if waiting for us to fall into a trap.
Viktor did not hesitate. He took cover behind a delivery crate, fingers working the magazine with a mechanic's patience, eyes scanning.
I moved into the open and baited, throwing my weight forward.
They fired. Viktor drew a bead and answered, single shots that found seams between shoulder and jacket, between threat and life.
Men went down. One staggered toward me, hands flailing, and I met him with a forearm across his throat and a knee into his chin. He choked and slid off my hands.
Sirens wailed closer. Voices echoed down the corridor. The world was catching up, dragging us back to reality, to consequences, to all the lies we'd have to tell about what happened here.
“Come on. Let's get out of here before they trap us in interviews.”
Viktor followed, gun still drawn, eyes still scanning shadows. Always protecting. Always watching.
Always there.
We burst through the loading dock doors into cool night air that tasted like rain and smoke. Emergency vehicles blocked the street, lights flashing red and blue against wet pavement. Officers swarmed the building, securing perimeters, establishing control.
And standing in the middle of it all, perfectly composed despite the chaos, was Marcel.
He saw us immediately. Smiled.
“Your Highness!” He called out, loud enough to draw attention. “Thank god you're safe!”
Press cameras swiveled toward us like weapons. Flashbulbs exploded. A dozen lenses captured the moment: Viktor's hand on my back, protective and possessive. Blood streaking both our faces. The way we stood too close, like we couldn't help it.
Evidence. Ammunition. Scandal waiting to be born.
Marcel's smile widened, satisfied and sharp.
I felt Viktor tense beside me. Felt him start to pull away, to create distance, to rebuild the walls we'd torn down tonight.
I grabbed his wrist. Held him there.
“Your Highness, can you comment on tonight's attack?”
“Was this another assassination attempt?”
“Mr. Volkov, how did you know where the shooters would be?”
I stepped forward a fraction, cleared my throat, and let the practiced smile fold into place — the one the palace press office liked for photographs. The world wanted soundbites; I gave them the safest ones.
“Tonight was a terrifying reminder that violence has no place in our city,” I said, voice steady and loud enough to carry over the din.
“I am grateful to the emergency services and the police who arrived so quickly. My thoughts are with those injured and their families. We are cooperating fully with the authorities as they investigate.”
A microphone dipped closer. “Can you confirm there was a coordinated attempt on your life, Your Highness?”
“We will leave operational details to the investigators and the palace security team,” I replied. “Speculation does not help the wounded or the officers doing their jobs. What I can say is that I am safe, and I am thankful for the swift actions of those who protected people tonight.”
“Mr. Volkov—”
I let a beat hang there, then added the part they'd want but that sounded carefully contained.
“I would like to publicly thank Mr. Volkov and the palace security detail for their courage. Their professionalism saved lives. Beyond that, there will be a full briefing once facts have been established.”
“Will you change your public appearances?” a reporter pressed.
“We take nothing for granted,” I said, letting the phrase be both reassurance and protocol. “Security measures are under review, and the safety of the public and the palace remains paramount.”
“Is there a message to the city?”
“Yes,” I said, and let the smile warm one notch so it read genuine for the cameras. “To everyone frightened tonight: we will not be cowed. We will not let terror define us. Please follow official channels for updates and remain calm. We will share more information as soon as we can.”
Viktor ignored them all. He just stood there, hand still on my back, staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
“We're leaving,” I announced to no one in particular. Then to Viktor: “Get me out of here.”
He didn't argue. Just guided me toward the waiting cars, cutting through the crowd with the same ruthless efficiency he used for everything else.