Chapter 25 Mara #2
The plan becomes painfully clear. Chase is aware of my presence.
This toast is a show meant to expose me while Connor takes out the main threat—the Ghost, whose brilliance protects the Rosettis.
Time slows down with sharp focus. I can finish the mission by pouring the contents into Chase's glass.
I can prove my worth to Emilio through blood and violence.
Or I can protect the man I love from being shot by an assassin.
The decision strikes me hard, like a bolt of lightning. Duty versus love. My survival instincts clash, each giving different commands, while my heart delivers one clear message:
Emilio. Protect Emilio. Choose Emilio.
I drop the vial.
Crystal shatters against marble. Neurotoxin spreads across stone
Every sacrifice I was willing to make for family acceptance is destroyed.
The sound is lost in applause. I abandon the mission and push through the crowd toward the man whose life is more important than approval, proving worth, or anything else.
Chase's champagne sits untouched as I fight through evening wear and fake smiles, desperate to reach Emilio before Connor's plan unfolds.
"Gun!" I shout as I reach the dance floor, my voice slicing through the applause. "Emilio, gun!" He doesn't hesitate. His hand finds my back, guiding me toward the service corridor. We move with calm urgency, just another couple looking for privacy, not deer escaping wolves through marble halls.
The first shot sounds like thunder. Crystal shatters as Connor's bullet hits the champagne fountain instead of a person. Screams erupt. Civilized society falls into chaos as people scatter.
"How many?" Emilio asks as we reach the corridor.
"Connor plus two specialists. European muscle, set up for crossfire."
Footsteps on marble interrupt us. They've followed us to a secluded spot, perfect for a deadly conversation. Connor and his men appear from the shadows with weapons ready. So arrogant.
"Going somewhere, Mara?" His casual threat sends chills down my spine. "The party's just getting started."
Emilio steps in front of me, placing himself between Connor's weapons and me. In the corridor's dim light, he looks like he's carved from ice. Fierce, determined, focused on protecting what matters to him.
"Connor," Emilio says, his voice turning low and intense. "I've been wanting to have this chat."
"Really? Because from where I stand, it looks like your girlfriend just spared Uncle Chase's life to save you. What kind of agent picks the target over the mission?"
The accusation lingers, heavy and toxic, but Emilio doesn't budge. He seems to relax even more, his muscles tensing with a quiet readiness.
"The kind that is mine," Emilio replies with deadly calm. "Everything else is just noise."
"Yours? She's been part of my operations, Rosetti. She had my trust. Why do you think—"
A knife suddenly appears, black and menacing, drawn from the shadows of Emilio's tailored suit without any fanfare. It absorbs the light rather than reflecting it.
"You should be very cautious," Emilio notes casually, "about what you say next."
Connor's eyes widen, recognizing the change. He sees a predator acknowledging another predator. A professional killer realizing he's facing something even more dangerous. He tenses, but Emilio's calm makes him pause.
"She chose me," Emilio continues, taking a deliberate step forward. Smooth and controlled, like a hunter who's already picked his moment. "Over the mission, over everything you and Chase offered her. She faced a choice between finishing her task and saving my life, and she didn't hesitate."
"It doesn't matter—" Connor begins, but Emilio's laugh interrupts, sharp and swift.
"It matters more than anything," he says softly. "Because you made one critical mistake."
"And that is?"
"You threatened what belongs to me." Connor's finger tightens on the trigger, ready to end the talk with violence. But Emilio is already in motion.
The Ghost moves smoothly, like liquid death. His knife finds the gap between tendons in Connor's wrist, forcing him to drop his gun, which clatters to the floor. Connor's scream echoes as metal grinds against bone.
While Connor's men stare in shock for one precious moment, I pull the gun from my thigh holster and shoot one in the arm.
Emilio slides his knife into the man's heart, and he drops like a stone.
The second mercenary draws his gun, but Emilio spins with grace, moving inside the gun's range.
His blade cuts the man's throat in a deadly arc, leaving a bloody mark on the walls.
"This," Emilio murmurs as the man falls, blood spreading across the marble, "is what happens to those who think they can take what's mine."
Connor is alone now, his gun on the ground, his wrist bleeding freely. He is shaking.
"You're going to die now," Emilio says, walking forward with heavy steps that sound like funeral drums. Red stains his white shirt, and I can't look away.
"You don't understand," Connor gasps. "Chase will—"
"Chase will die too," Emilio cuts in, now close enough to touch. "Not tonight, but soon. And when he does, he'll know the cost of threatening what I hold dear. But first," Emilio whispers into Connor's ear, "you will."
The second blade slips between Connor's ribs. This death feels different. Personal, marked by intimate violence.
"She's mine," Emilio says softly as Connor's life spills onto the marble. "And this is what happens to anyone foolish enough to think they can change that."
Connor tries to respond, but only dark crimson bubbles out of his mouth.
When Connor's body goes limp, Emilio lets it drop with casual indifference. Connor and his men are eliminated in less than three minutes by Emilio Rosetti.
He turns to me then, leaving death behind, his silver eyes searching my face for any sign of fear or disgust.
I move closer, drawn by the same magnetic pull that has defined us from the start.
Desire floods my system as I take in the sight of him, shirt stained with red, dark hair tousled from violence, eyes glowing with satisfaction.
This is who he truly is beneath his tailored clothes and calm exterior.
Not just the Ghost, but something far more dangerous.
A man who turns violence into worship when it serves love.
"You chose me," he breathes, his voice rough as his stained fingers gently touch my cheek. "Over everything else. You chose me."
The wonder in his voice fills my chest with emotion until it's hard to contain. "Always," I whisper, leaning into his touch despite the metallic scent of death on his skin. "I'll always choose you."