Chapter 17
CASSANDRA
More gunshots, then screaming, ripping the night apart.
“Stay down,” Damien says, low and calm. I’m sure as hell not about to stand up. My arm flares—hot, burning. Blood runs in a thin line to my wrist, soaking the ribbon.
“Can I move?” I ask.
“Slowly.” He peels off me, pulling me up with him, one hand on my waist as he reaches for his pants and pulls them on.
“Stay close,” he orders.
We cautiously step into the corridor. The party has turned into chaos. Alex notices us and approaches. He looks at my arm, then nods to Damien.
“On it,” he says. “South lawn. SUV was blacked out. Plates covered. Witness says four inside, one leaning out the window.”
Damien remains expressionless. His eyes go cold and dark.
“Drive-by,” Alex confirms. “Two guests hit—nonfatal. EMTs on site. Shooter lane was the east road, then out the back service gate.”
We cross the ballroom. Broken glass glitters the floor like confetti. Guests huddle in hushed whispers, trying to grasp the fact that death just winked at them. Staff moves around like ghosts, cleaning and trying to calm down the guests who are in shock.
Mrs. Koval stands at the edge of the mayhem, chin high, eyes landing on me. I show her my wrapped arm. She nods, and I can see her relieved exhale from across the room.
Ivan approaches, jacket open, tie gone, drink still in hand. He grins like he wasn’t just inches from getting shot.
“Who brings fireworks without being asked?” he quips.
“Not now, brother,” Alex snaps.
Ivan’s eyes flick to me, something mean and amused curling at his mouth. He lifts his glass in a toast I don’t return.
Damien doesn’t look at him. He addresses his most trusted guard, Nikolai Orlov, as he walks up to us, all business.
“Lock it down,” he tells him. “Perimeter, cameras, street pulls. I want plates on every black SUV within five miles. Send teams A and C to the east road and the back gate. D stays on the injured and holds the lobby. No press inside.”
Orlov is gone before the last word lands.
“The window,” Damien says to no one in particular. Rage flashes in his eyes. “Someone aimed for that room. That’s inside knowledge.” He looks at Alex. “Find me the leak.”
My stomach drops. The mirror. The timing. Someone knew exactly where we were.
“Let the guests out in groups,” he adds. “Phones in baskets. No videos leave this house.”
Alex gives orders into his radio, crews instantly moving. The party dissolves into orderly lines following instructions.
I grimace as my arm throbs under the linen. Damien notices. He pulls a clean cloth napkin from a nearby table and adjusts the wrap. His fingers are careful, his eyes scanning the room while he helps me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
His eyes flick to mine for a beat. “You’re welcome.”
A guard jogs up with an update. “Cameras caught a partial—three angles, east road. No face on the shooter. Exit path clean. Spent casings on the street.”
“Bag them and route to analysis. Check the gate logs. I want the exact minute it was opened last and the badge that did it,” Damien says. “Then freeze the badges.”
Ivan drifts closer. “Big night,” he says. “People are going to be talking about this Christmas bash for years.”
“Go sober up,” Damien says coldly and uninterested.
Ivan takes a step back. “Relax. Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“Get him out of my sight,” Damien tells Alex.
Damien turns back to me after the brothers walk away, checking the wrap again. The linen is pink now, no longer red as the blood flow subsides. “We’re going to medical,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going,” he repeats. “You’ll be checked, then you’ll be upstairs with a guard at your door. You don’t move without me.”
I nod, touched by his concern and need to protect me. “Okay.”
We pass the shattered mirror on the way. The two bullet holes look at us like eyes. Glass lies on the floor like glittery trash.
“Someone knew,” I say. “They knew where we were.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
“And when.”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t add what we’re both thinking, that the hit was personal.
We enter the side hall where EMTs are staged. A woman in a navy uniform and blue gloves takes my vitals, checks the graze, cleans it, and redresses it. “You got lucky,” she says. “You’re good to go. Keep it clean.”
Damien thanks her and turns to me. “Come. Police will be here soon.”
I fall in at his side as we walk.
The ballroom empties as people line up, give their statements, then leave with their coats and shaken smiles. When it’s my turn, I keep it short and clean, just like Damien told me. Name. Where I was at the time of the shooting. What I heard. What I saw. Nothing extra. No theories.
Privacy, precision, truth.
Damien stands beside me the whole time—like a warning label the cops can read. I answer questions, sign the statement, and hand the pen back. The officer thanks me and moves on.
When the last squad car pulls off, the house seems to exhale with relief. Damien doesn’t. He takes me upstairs without a word. Past the wrecked mirror room. Past staff sweeping glass from carpet and scrubbing blood from the ballroom floor.
“Inside,” he says when we arrive at the door to my suite.
I step in. He follows, checking the windows, the locks, every room and closet like he’s clearing a scene.
“You don’t leave this suite,” he tells me. “You don’t open this door for anyone but me or Alex. Guard stays outside. If you need something, you call.” His eyes land on my bandage. “Get some sleep. That’s an order.”
“I’m not a prisoner,” I reply.
“No, but you’re under my protection now,” he answers.
It doesn’t feel any different. It still feels like I’m trapped. I want to argue, but I nod instead, because my arm hurts and my brain knows this isn’t over.
He brushes the ribbon at my wrist, a quick touch, then leaves. I lock the door. Footsteps settle in the hall—the guard. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
My phone blinks with a missed call from the hospital. The world tilts. I hit redial with unsteady hands. It rings once.
“Ms. Hewitt? This is the ICU at Mount Sinai.”
I taste metal. “Clara?”
“She’s stable now,” the nurse says. “The surgery was successful, but shortly after they closed her up, her rhythm crashed and she flatlined. They resuscitated her quickly and moved her to the ICU. We’re keeping her sedated while we run tests.”
“Flatlined,” I repeat.
“We got her back,” the nurse says. “She’s here. Vitals are fragile but holding. The team is with her.”
“Can I see her?”
“Not tonight,” she says gently. “Let the doctors finish. You can come in the morning.”
I hang up and stare at my hand. It’s shaking. The ribbon looks stupid and brave at the same time. I want to run. I want to break down the door. I want Damien, and yet I don’t.
I press my palm to my bandage and remind myself to breathe.