13. Shield
Shield
Vera
The world doesn’t explode.
It fractures.
Glass bursts inward in a violent spray, screaming against marble. The sound comes after the impact, like thunder chasing lightning. My ears ring.
But what I remember most—
Is Roman’s body hitting mine.
Hard.
Solid.
Instinctive.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t calculate optics. Doesn’t check for witnesses.
He shoves me down and covers me completely, his weight a shield between my ribs and the window.
Another shot cracks.
Closer.
The vibration hums through the floor.
“Stay down,” he orders.
I don’t argue.
Because this isn’t theater anymore.
His arm braces over my head, palm flat against the marble. His body angles just slightly, turning his back toward the glass. Toward the open line of fire.
He’s taking it.
If another bullet comes through, it hits him first.
My breath catches—not from fear.
From the raw, terrifying reality of it.
This man proposed marriage like a weapon.
This man called me bait.
And yet—
He shields me like something sacred.
Security floods the room. Boots pound against marble. Orders snap through radios.
“Angle identified!”
“Twenty-first floor, northeast tower!”
“Visual on muzzle flash!”
Roman lifts his head just enough to scan through the shattered frame.
His jaw tightens.
“Suppress,” he commands.
Gunfire erupts in controlled bursts from our side now.
Measured.
Precise.
I shift slightly under him, careful not to break his cover.
Through the fractured glass, I see it.
The opposite building.
Renovation floors exposed behind scaffolding.
Open sightline.
And then—
A flicker of movement.
The nest.
Sandbags. A tripod. A dark silhouette scrambling back from the ledge.
My stomach drops.
I know that building.
I know the curved ironwork on the balcony.
The carved stone lions flanking the lower entrance.
I’ve attended charity galas there.
I’ve watched my father shake hands in that lobby.
It’s one of our logistics properties.
Bellini-owned.
Too perfect.
Too convenient.
“Roman,” I whisper.
He shifts slightly, still covering me.
“What?”
“That building.”
He follows my gaze.
The sniper’s floor.
Recognition flickers.
“Yes.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s my father’s building.”
The words feel like betrayal just saying them.
Security continues to fire controlled rounds across the street. Someone shouts that the shooter is retreating deeper into the structure.
Roman’s body goes very still above me.
Not shocked.
Cold.
“Or someone using it,” he says.
His voice is no longer heated.
It’s ice.
I look up at him.
“You think he—?”
“I think,” Roman says carefully, “that whoever wants you dead just escalated.”
“From my father’s property.”
“Yes.”
The implication hangs between us.
If my father ordered it—
This engagement becomes war inside a marriage.
If someone framed him—
Then the traitor has reach inside both families.
Security finally clears the line of sight.
“Shooter lost!” Viktor calls from across the room. “They abandoned the position.”
Of course they did.
The shot wasn’t meant to kill.
It was meant to confirm access.
Roman rises slowly but keeps one hand on my shoulder, anchoring me to the floor.
“Stay down,” he repeats.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You are alive,” he corrects.
His gaze sweeps my body quickly checking for blood, for impact, for anything I might not feel yet.
His hand tightens once against my shoulder before releasing.
The room smells like shattered glass and gunpowder.
Guards swarm the perimeter.
Yelena stands rigid near the hallway, eyes blazing but controlled.
“This was deliberate,” she says sharply.
“Yes,” Roman replies.
“All from Bellini property.”
His gaze doesn’t leave the building across the street.
“Too deliberate.”
I push up slowly, sitting on the marble amid glittering shards.
My hands tremble once before I still them.
“You think it’s a frame,” I say.
“I think,” Roman replies, voice low, “that whoever orchestrated Luka’s death just reminded me they’re still watching.”
A chill runs through me.
“This is about your brother too?”
“Everything is.”
The skyline looks different now.
Not distant.
Hostile.
I wrap my arms around myself, the ring catching the light as my fingers move.
It feels heavier than it did an hour ago.
Roman turns back to me.
“You’re moving rooms,” he says.
“I’m not hiding.”
“This isn’t hiding.”
“It feels like it.”
His jaw tightens.
“You saw the laser.”
“Yes.”
“And you saw where it came from.”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand.”
I do.
I just don’t want to.
Security begins sweeping the shattered area. Glass crunches under boots.
Across the street, the abandoned sniper’s nest gapes open like a mouth mid-confession.
My father’s building.
Or someone wearing his name.
I look up at Roman again.
“If my father didn’t order this—”
“He didn’t need to,” Roman says quietly.
The way he says it terrifies me.
Because it means the enemy isn’t just external.
It’s intimate.
Embedded.
Close enough to use family walls as cover.
Roman extends a hand to help me up.
I hesitate only a second before taking it.
His grip is firm.
Steady.
Shield.
Whatever this marriage is—
Whatever contract we signed—
The bullet was real.
And so was the way he moved to take it for me.
That frightens me more than the sniper.
Because it makes this—
Us—
Far more dangerous than strategy.
And far more difficult to survive.