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“She’s downstairs,” Maxim’s voice came through our coms. “We captured one of the perimeter guards.”

“Fucking hell,” Ilias growled as we reversed our course pounding back the way we’d come.

"No shit," I growled. "Time to go make a scene."

We didn’t creep this time. We stormed and took out the guards as we went. We hit the ballroom like a bomb.

Conall’s men flooded in from the front, shouting in their heavy Irish accents, guns raised. Maxim’s soldiers took out the balcony snipers in seconds. I’d feel sorry for the party goers if they weren’t all dickwads who were going to be shot momentarily. Renzetti’s personal guards reacted fast, but not fast enough. I took down two before I reached thebottom of the stairs, gun barking fire with every shot.

Theo turned as chaos erupted around her, and for a heartbeat, our eyes locked. She didn’t appear afraid, but then everything tilted as a man with a mustache raised his weapon and a shot rang out. Her body jerked as the bullet tore through her.

"NO!" I roared, adrenaline shoving me forward.

She crumpled to her knees, clutching her chest, blood soaking through the silk of that goddamn dress. I opened fire in the direction of the shooter—some coward trying to blend into the panicked crowd.

Renzetti saw his opening. He slipped away like the snake he was, ducking behind an ornate column and disappearing through a service door while the chaos masked his escape.

“Piccola, I’ve got you," I said, dropping to my knees. My hands were already on her, pressing hard against the wound. Blood coated my fingers. "Nice dress,” I added inanely.

She looked up at me, eyes blazing even through the pain. She scoffed. "I hate it. It’s off the rack.” She gave me a watery smile thatwas more of a grimace than anything. “Took you long enough.” Her eyes drifted closed with a sigh.

And just like that, the world narrowed.

I choked out a half-sobbing laugh. “Sorry, we’re late.”

Maxim appeared behind me, covering us with his rifle. "We need to move. Now. The crowd’s thinning, but we have movement on the east wing."

"Copy that," I growled. I swept Theo into my arms, carefully, blood still seeping from her wound — an alarming amount. She needed a hospital.

She whimpered but didn’t fight me. That alone scared the shit out of me. I could hear Ilias behind me, calling out Theo’s name, followed by Kostas shouting something I couldn’t make out. Conall’s men secured the exits while Maxim’s soldiers ensured no one followed.

But Renzetti was gone.

Slippery bastard.

As we reached the outside, the night hit us like a wall—humid, hot, thick with gunpowder and smoke. We moved through the wreckage together—through the chaos ofbullets and bodies, through Maxim’s men pulling out the guests and forcing them to their knees as they compared faces to pictures on their phones. Orders were being barked, but I remained singularly focused. Theo needed a hospital. The others could manage the cleanup.

CHAPTER 16

THEODOSIA

Okay,no one told me that the afterlife came with a heart monitor’s soothing, repetitive lullaby. Or maybe heaven was facing a technical issue.

My eyelids felt like they were made of velvet-covered cement. When I finally cracked one open, everything blended into a pastel smear—ivory walls, pale blue sheets, and a beige curtain with absolutely no sense of aesthetic ambition. Ew.

A sharp ache pulsed in my side, and my brain—a complete traitor—linked it to a memory. There had been sharp, blinding pain.

The auction. Renzetti. The dress I didn’t design. The smell of bourbon and blood. The sound of Angelo shouting. And then?—

Gunfire.

My chest rose too quickly, and my breath hitched as the machines beeped faster in response. I tried to move as I attempted to sit up, but my body had other plans. My ribs screamed, and my side throbbed. My limbs felt like they belonged to a crash-test dummy. A groan escaped me—elegant, like a dying goat, probably—and that was when I noticed him.

Slumped in a chair beside me, head bowed, one hand hanging between his knees, the other still wrapped around the grip of a gun tucked into the holster under his jacket, was Angelo. A dangerous angel in wrinkled black, his shirt stained with something dark that I didn’t want to think about too hard. His hair was unkempt, his jaw shadowed by stubble, and his expression was slack with exhaustion.

And I’d never seen anything more heartbreakingly beautiful. (Aside from a pair of vintage Ferragamo trousers I once saw in Paris, but this was a close second.)

I wondered where my brothers were. My mind replayed the events of the past day. Had it only been a day? Relief had flooded mewhen I heard the gunfire and commotion from the upper floors. There had been no doubt in my mind that my brothers would come for me. A small part of me prayed that Angelo would be there, too. It made sense that he would be, but I suppressed the giddy girl and needy bitch who reveled in the idea of a white knight riding to her rescue. This wasn’t the fucking movies.