Chapter 8 - The Rescue
The gala was a minefield of polite insults and veiled threats.
I stayed by Dominic’s side,
acting as his shield and his anchor.
But halfway through the night,
a waiter leaned in and whispered something to me.
"Your friend is in trouble."
"The estate is being hit."
I looked at Dominic,
but he was deep in conversation with a senator.
I couldn't wait.
I slipped away,
moving toward the exit.
I grabbed a coat from the rack and ran for the car.
I didn't call the guards.
I didn't call the driver.
I stole a set of keys from the valet and drove like a woman possessed.
I reached the estate just as the first explosions rocked the gardens.
The Morettis weren't waiting for the gala to end.
They were striking now.
I ran through the smoke,
my lungs burning.
I found Gemma in the panic room,
the door already being battered by a sledgehammer.
I grabbed a shotgun from the wall rack—
something Dominic had shown me how to use just the day before.
I didn't think.
I didn't feel.
I just aimed and pulled the trigger.
The kickback nearly broke my shoulder,
but the man at the door went down.
I fired again,
the noise deafening in the small space.
"Clara!"
Gemma screamed,
pulling me into the room.
We sat in the dark,
the sounds of battle raging outside.
I realized then that the girl from the pharmacy was truly dead.
The girl who was afraid of the fire had become the flame.
Suddenly,
the door opened.
I raised the gun,
my finger on the trigger.
"It’s me,"
Dominic said,
his face covered in soot and blood.
He looked at the fallen man,
then at the gun in my hand.
He walked to me and took the weapon,
his eyes filled with a pride that was almost painful.
"You saved her again,"
he whispered.
"I’m never letting you go,
May you like
Clara."
"Not ever."
