Chapter 6 - Crossfire in the Back Bay
Chaos erupted before Marin could draw another breath.
One of the men in tactical coats flashed a quick, encrypted signal with two fingers, and instantly, the ambient chatter of the wedding guests dissolved into shrieks of panic. Aunt Brenda dropped her crystal champagne flute; it shattered against the parquet floor with a sharp, explosive crack.
"Everyone stay calm!" Clara shouted from the head table, though her own voice was trembling violently as she clutched her fiancé's arm.
Dante didn't run. He didn't panic. With a fluid, terrifying grace, he unbuttoned his vest completely and reached inside his inner breast pocket, drawing out a sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol with a sound so quiet it was almost swallowed by the rising storm outside.
"Dante!" Marin gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as her heart slammed against her ribs. "Who are they? What is happening?"
"A minor professional dispute," Dante muttered, his eyes never leaving the three men advancing across the ballroom floor. He grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her hard behind the heavy oak structure of the bar. "Stay down, Marin. Do not stand up until I tell you."
"I'm not hiding while you get yourself killed!" she shot back, adrenaline overriding every instinct of self-preservation.
"If I wanted to die, Miss Whitlock, I wouldn't have bothered coming to your family dinner," he retorted with a cold, terrifying streak of absolute confidence.
The first gunshot shattered the stained-glass transom above the double doors, raining glittering shards of colored glass over the white tablecloths. Screams echoed off the high vaulted ceilings.
Dante leaned out from behind the mahogany bar, raised his weapon with practiced, military-grade precision, and fired twice. The reports were deafening in the enclosed space. Across the room, the lead assailant’s right shoulder exploded in a spray of fabric and blood, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the polished floorboards.
The remaining two gunmen scrambled for cover behind the heavy marble pillar near the entrance, returning fire with wild, desperate bursts that chewed up the flower arrangements Marin had spent eleven agonizing hours crafting. White garden roses exploded into shredded petals and green stems, raining down like snow over the wreckage.
Marin watched in sheer horror as her life's work—and her life itself—dissolved into a war zone.
Dante reloaded with one hand, his expression completely devoid of fear. He looked less like a corporate executive and more like an executioner stepping out of a dark legend. He glanced down at Marin, assessing her for injuries.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
May you like
"No!" she yelled over the deafening echoes of gunfire. "Are you out of your mind?!"
"Probably," Dante murmured, a dark, reckless smile flashing across his face. He grabbed her hand again, his grip unbreakable. "Come on. We're leaving through the kitchens."
