Chapter 8 - The Price of a Soul
The silence on Pier 14 was absolute, broken only by the hum of the ship’s auxiliary generators and the slap of black waves against the pilings.
Petrov’s men looked at the red laser dots dancing across their chests, then looked up at the silhouette of the sniper on the high crane.
One by one, the sound of metal hitting asphalt rang out.
*Clatter. Clatter. Thud.*
Nine of Petrov’s men raised their hands, backing slowly away from their weapons. They were mercenaries; they weren't paid enough to die for a shipment that was already lost.
“Cowards!” Petrov roared, his face twisted in a mask of homicidal rage. “Get your weapons! Shoot them!”
Nobody moved.
Petrov’s eyes darted wildly. He was cornered, ruined, and completely outplayed. A man with nothing left to lose is always the most dangerous creature in the room.
With a feral snarl, Petrov raised his Tokarev pistol, not aiming for Gabriel, but leveling the iron sights directly at Rose’s chest.
“If I go down,” Petrov screamed, “Richard’s bloodline ends tonight!”
Rose didn't scream. She didn't drop to the ground. Her instincts from the window fire escape took over—she braced her feet and met Petrov’s crazed eyes with unyielding fury.
Gabriel moved faster than thought.
He lunged across the four feet of space between them, his large frame shielding Rose entirely from the line of fire.
*BANG.*
The gunshot exploded across the pier like thunder.
Gabriel grunted, a sharp hiss of air escaping his teeth as the bullet tore through the meat of his left shoulder, tearing the fabric of his tuxedo jacket and sending a spray of dark blood onto the concrete.
“Gabriel!” Rose cried out, reaching for him as his weight staggered against her.
Before Petrov could pull the trigger a second time, Gabriel drew his Kimber .45 with his uninjured right hand and fired twice.
*Crack. Crack.*
Two clean rounds struck Petrov squarely in the center of his chest. The Bratva boss froze, his eyes widening in shock as the gun slipped from his limp fingers. He took one ragged, gasping step backward, lost his footing on the slick edge of the apron, and plunged thirty feet into the freezing, churning black water below.
A heavy splash echoed up through the pilings. Then, nothing.
“Boss!” Cole yelled, sprinting forward with two guards, but Gabriel waved him off with a bloodstained right hand.
“Stand down!” Gabriel ordered, his voice strained with pain but completely in control. “Secure the crew. Call the private medical van to the estate.”
Rose dropped to her knees beside Gabriel, ignoring the wet asphalt and the blood soaking into her emerald dress. Her hands were frantic, tearing open his dress shirt to inspect the wound.
The bullet had passed through the deltoid muscle, missing the bone, but blood was pumping steadily down his arm, dark and hot.
“You idiot,” she whispered, tears finally breaking through her stoic mask, spilling over her eyelashes and cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. “Why did you do that? You could have let the sniper take him!”
Gabriel looked down at her, a pale, pained smile touching his lips. He raised his uninjured hand, his bloody, tattooed fingers gently brushing against her wet cheek, wiping away a tear.
“You’re my wife, Rose,” he murmured, his breath coming in shallow rasps. “I let you run once because I wanted to see who you were. I’ll never let anyone take you down while I’m breathing.”
Rose pressed her palm against the wound, applying pressure to stem the bleeding, her gaze locking onto his with a fierce, unbreakable intensity.
“You’re bleeding on an eight-hundred-dollar shirt, Moretti,” she choked out, a half-sob, half-laugh escaping her throat. “Shut up and let me stop the bleeding.”
Gabriel’s fingers closed over hers, holding her hand firmly against his chest, right over the steady, powerful beating of his heart.
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“I told you,” he whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “We’re partners now.”
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