CHAPTER 25
RUBY P.O.V.
The world is absolutely deafening, but at the exact same time, there's nothing in my ears but the wet, ragged sound of Andrei’s breathing.
I’m on my knees in the slush, my bare skin stinging against the frozen concrete of the skyscraper plaza, and my hands are hovering uselessly over the two dark, steaming holes blown straight through his chest. The pristine white snow around his massive body is being swallowed fast by a spreading, ink-black puddle of his own blood.
I stare down at his face looking for the terrifying Bratva monster who just tore through a building of billionaires for me, but all I find is a man literally breaking apart at the seams. I frantically press my palms against his wounds to stop the bleeding, but the blood is so hot and slick my hands slide right off his ruined suit jacket.
Yesterday my biggest fucking problem was covering a double shift at the cafe, spilling an iced latte on a rude customer, and wondering how I’d pay rent.
Now I'm holding a dying king's life in my bare hands.
"Andrei? Andrei, look at me!" I scream, the sound tearing out of my throat. His eyes are blown wide, unseeing. "Don't you dare die. Not after this. Jesus, there’s so much blood."
The heavy, synchronized clack-clack of four SUV doors slamming shut snaps the tether of my shock instantly.
A line of men in long black winter coats emerges from the idling vehicles, their faces obscured by the shadows of the plaza and cold resolve.
They level assault rifles with the practiced, bored ease of professional executioners.
They aren't here to talk or negotiate; they are here to finish the fucking job.
I notice the way their breath fogs in the freezing air, a steady, rhythmic reminder of the life they are about to strip away from me. No one is coming to save me. Not the cops, not God, not my piece of shit brother. Only I can do this.
"Target the girl too," one of the shadows barks, his voice devoid of anything human. "Make it clean. Boris wants proof."
My hazel eyes lock onto the matte-black beast of a handgun lying three feet away where Andrei dropped it when he took the bullets for me.
It looks heavy, ugly, and like the only thing in the entire goddamn world that matters right now.
I wipe a thick streak of Andrei's hot blood across my forehead, my frozen fingers clawing at the icy ground as I lunge for the weapon. I can practically hear Andrei’s deep, abrasive voice in my head from when we were trapped inside: You move when I say, or we both die.
He isn't saying it now, he’s choking on his own blood, but the memory is a command I refuse to disobey.
"Move, Ruby. Move!" I mutter to myself, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Pick it up."
My fingers close around the grip and it’s ice-cold and shockingly heavy, nearly slipping straight out of my blood-slicked palm.
I fumble awkwardly for the trigger guard, my heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs that feels like it’s going to crack my sternum.
I don't know a damn thing about stance or aiming.
I just point the heavy metal at the wall of black coats, squeeze my eyes shut for a micro-second against my better judgment, and pull.
"Get back!" I scream like an unhinged feral animal. "Stay away from him!"
The sharp crack shatters the winter silence, the smell of burnt gunpowder instantly overpowering the metallic tang of blood in the air.
The recoil is a physical assault, a brutal jolt of lightning that kicks back so hard it rattles my teeth and threatens to snap my wrist. But the result is instantaneous—the line of professional killers actually falters.
They clearly didn't expect the terrified offering in the ruined slip to fire back.
They scatter toward the armored SUVs, seeking cover from my erratic, panicked lead.
A hot shell casing ejects and bounces hard off my cheek, leaving a stinging welt, but I don't stop.
I pull the trigger again and again, the blinding muzzle flash illuminating the absolute terror etched into my own face.
I am counting the shots without even realizing it, my brain doing a primal arithmetic of survival.
"She's armed! Down!" one of the coats roars over the gunfire. "Suppress her!"
The air suddenly fills with the terrifying zip and crack of return fire.
Bullets chew furiously into the stone planters surrounding us, spraying my bare shoulders with grit, dust, and razor-sharp chips of concrete.
I tuck my head low, my hacked-off dark hair whipping violently into my mouth as a heavy caliber round shatters a decorative light fixture mere inches above my skull.
I’m completely pinned, huddled over Andrei’s massive dying body, and my weapon is empty, just clicking uselessly in my freezing hand.
I am not dying in this fucking snow. Not for him, and absolutely not for his backstabbing uncle Boris.
"Reloading!" a voice echoes from the SUVs. "Move up, now!"
Through a tiny gap in the deafening gunfire, I spot my only way out.
A sleek silver Mercedes sedan is idling right at the valet stand, its bright LED headlights cutting through the falling snow like a damn beacon.
The valet is still sitting in the driver's seat, his hands frozen on the leather steering wheel, his eyes wide as dinner plates as he watches the massacre unfold on his shift.
I wipe a mixture of freezing sleet and blood from my eyes, squinting at the glowing hood ornament.
It's a miracle or a machine, and I need it right now.
"Don't move! Just stay there!" I yell toward the car, though there's no way he hears me over the chaos. "I need that car."
I’m about to commit my first carjacking and the thought is absurdly, hilariously distant.
I stay as low as physically possible, my boots skidding dangerously on the black ice as I sprint headlong for the idling sedan.
Every single muscle in my back is wound tight, fully expecting the devastating impact of a rifle bullet to tear through my spine.
I lose my left shoe in a pile of slush but I don't even break stride, my bare foot slapping agonizingly against the freezing pavement.
The valet sees me coming—a bloody, wild-eyed wraith charging at him out of a warzone—and he actually begins to scream, a high, thin, pathetic sound completely lost in the howling wind.
"Out! Get out of the car now!" I shriek as I close the distance. "I'll shoot you! Move!"
I don't even have the gun anymore; I dropped it in the snow, but I have to act like the craziest bitch alive.
I reach the driver's side door and wrench it open with a manic strength I didn't even know existed in my exhausted body.
I grab the trembling valet by his cheap lapels and haul his ass straight out of the heated seat.
He doesn't even try to fight me; he just collapses like a wet paper bag into a snowbank, sobbing and babbling some incoherent nonsense about his family. I accidentally knock his stupid uniform hat off, seeing his youthful, terrified face for a fraction of a second. Sorry, kid. You’re the lucky one tonight.
"Stay down if you want to live!" I bark at him, the warmth of the car's heater hitting my freezing face, mixing with the overwhelming scent of his cheap, spicy cologne.
"Please, don't hurt me!" he begs into the slush.
I leave the engine running, using the heavy open door as a makeshift shield, and sprint back into the kill zone.
The hit squad has reached the edge of the plaza.
I have maybe ten seconds before they flank us.
I reach Andrei, who is now terrifyingly, unnaturally still.
The snow all around him is just a dark, frozen lake of death.
The physical reality of his sheer size hits me like an anvil.
He’s nearly twice my weight and completely dead weight.
I hook my bloody fingers aggressively under his thick armpits, my short nails digging desperately into the ruined, expensive fabric of his bespoke suit. I feel a surge of irrational, hysterical resentment—how dare he be this fucking heavy while he's dying on me?
"Help me, Andrei. I can't do this alone," I grit out, my voice cracking. "Wake up! You have to wake up!"
I lean back with my entire body weight and pull with everything I have left.
Every muscle in my legs and back screams in total agony, my shoulder joints popping audibly as I drag him inch by agonizing inch toward the waiting car.
He leaves a thick, dark red smear straight through the pristine white snow—a literal trail of his life force painting the ground.
I grind my teeth so hard together I taste fresh salt and copper, my vision tunneling down until the only thing in the universe is the open passenger door of that Mercedes.
Bullets ping off the concrete pavement around us, sending sharp chips of stone slicing into my bare shins.
"Just a little further..." I gasp, my lungs burning like they're full of battery acid. "Don't die yet. Don't you dare."
The hit squad realizes what I'm doing and starts laying down heavy suppressive fire.
Bullets thud violently into the side of the Mercedes, the impact shaking the entire chassis.
The passenger side windows spider-web instantly, raining chunks of safety glass down onto the plush leather seats.
I reach the open passenger side, my chest heaving violently in the freezing air.
I kick the passenger door wider with my knee, the metal groaning loudly in protest as a stray bullet severely dents the panel right near the hinge.
The sharp scent of ozone and leaking gasoline hits my nose.
The car is going to become a burning coffin if I don't get it moving.
"Go! Go! Go!" one of the shooters bellows. "They're at the car!"