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SIXTEEN

F allon

“Milo!” I drop to my knees beside him, the floor gritty against my skin, my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

Blood pools beneath his still form, dark and accusing in the dim light.

My hands shake as I reach for him, fingers already slick with red. Not him. Not Milo. Not now.

I scramble to roll him over, my breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

He’s heavy, dead weight – no, not dead, I can’t think that word and I strain against his bulk.

When I finally manage to turn him, he gasps sharply, the sound like a gift in my ears.

Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, a thin crimson line tracking down his stubbled jaw.

My hands press against his chest, searching for the wound, for the tear in fabric that would mean a bullet found its mark. Instead, my fingers encounter something hard and uneven beneath his shirt. I freeze, comprehension dawning slowly through my panic.

“You’re wearing a vest,” I whisper, the words barely audible even to my own ears.

Relief floods through me, so powerful it makes me dizzy.

I rip open his shirt, buttons flying, to reveal the black body armor underneath.

It’s dented where the bullet struck, still it held.

“You fucking bastard—you scared the shit out of me.” I blurt grabbing his shoulders only for him to hiss and I realize one at least got him, the one beneath his collarbone.

Milo groans, his eyes fluttering, struggling to focus on my face. There’s pain there, lots of it – a vest stopped the bullet from penetrating. However, the straps holding it to him aren’t bulletproof, so it doesn’t stop the impact. He’s alive. He’s breathing.

“Stay still,” I order, my voice stronger now. “You’ve been shot.”

His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “Felt it,” he manages, each word clearly costing him.

I glance over my shoulder, the relief of finding Milo alive suddenly giving way to the reality of our situation. The scene before me steals my breath all over again.

Leone and Mikhail are locked in combat. Leone’s face is a mask of fury, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. Mikhail matches him, his cold blue eyes burning with decades of festering resentment.

They crash into a table, sending it splintering to the ground. Leone’s fist connects with Mikhail’s jaw, the impact so hard I swear I can hear bone crack. Mikhail retaliates with a vicious uppercut that snaps Leone’s head back. Blood sprays in an arc through the air.

My stomach knots as I watch them. This isn’t the calculated violence of men who kill for business.

This is raw hatred, the kind that only comes from personal betrayal.

They’re fighting like animals, with no thought to technique or self-preservation.

They want to tear each other apart with their bare hands.

Leone grabs Mikhail by the throat, slamming him against the wall with enough force to crack the wood.

Mikhail’s knee comes up hard between Leone’s legs, and I wince at Leone’s grunt of pain.

He doesn’t let go – if anything, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into Mikhail’s throat until the Russian’s face begins to darken.

Mikhail’s hand scrabbles at his belt, and my blood freezes when I see the glint of a blade.

Before I can shout a warning, he slashes upward, opening a gash along Leone’s arm.

Leone roars in pain, though he doesn’t release his grip.

Instead, he smashes his forehead directly into Mikhail’s eye.

The crunch of skin meeting bone turns my stomach, and his eye swells on that side along with his brow, which gushes blood; the knife Mikhail was holding skitters across the floor.

Blood streams down Mikhail’s face. Still, somehow, he manages to get leverage, shoving Leone back and breaking free of his grip.

They circle each other, both breathing hard, bodies tensed like predators.

Leone’s shirt is torn, revealing the muscled torso beneath, now slick with sweat and streaked with blood – his and Mikhail’s.

Mikhail spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor, his teeth stained red when he bares them in a feral grin, just as Leone lunges at him and they hit the ground.

Mikhail grabs Milo’s dropped knife before I can reach it, his fingers closing around the handle.

Then comes a new sound—boots on concrete, movement in my peripheral vision.

I turn to see a figure emerging through the smoke.

Not one of ours. His face is unfamiliar, cold, and the gun in his hand is aimed directly at my head.

“No—!” Milo screams, and the man’s finger tightens on the trigger. Time slows, stretches like it’s pulled too thin. I can see every detail of his face now, the pockmarked skin, the dead eyes, the small tattoo on his neck marking him as one of Mikhail’s men.

Somehow, impossibly, Milo is already moving, already rolling toward me with a speed that defies his injuries.

I feel the concussion of the shot before I register the sound—a flat crack that echoes off the barn walls.

Then Milo’s weight crashes into me as the bullet meant for my skull hits him in the back of his vest instead.

The impact drives us both to the ground, his body completely covering mine, shielding me.

“Fuck!” I sob, clutching him, feeling his weight press me into the cold concrete. “Milo, Milo…” His breath comes in ragged gasps against my neck, his body rigid with pain.

Leone roars, the sound so primal and ferocious it barely seems human.

Through the tangle of Milo’s limbs, I see Leone launch himself at the shooter—at Igor, I realize now, recognizing Mikhail’s right-hand man.

Leone moves like something possessed, all calculated restraint abandoned in favor of pure, homicidal rage.

Mikhail seizes the opportunity, slashing Leone across the back with Milo’s knife. The blade tears through Leone’s shirt, leaving a ribbon of crimson in its wake. Leone stumbles forward, momentarily thrown off balance by the attack.

“Leone!” I cry, pushing up onto my knees, struggling under Milo’s weight. His body slides off me, landing with a grunt on the concrete beside me. His eyes meet mine for just a second—pain-filled, and alert. Alive.

My gaze catches on something metallic glinting on the floor near an overturned table—a gun. I scramble toward it on hands and knees, lunging, fingers stretching out desperately.

Behind me, I hear the sounds of Leone and Mikhail’s renewed struggle—grunts of effort, the wet sound of fists meeting flesh, bodies crashing into equipment.

My fingers close around the cold grip of the pistol just as I turn to see Mikhail pin Leone against a support beam, the knife raised high over his chest, poised to plunge into Leone’s heart.

I scream. “Leone!”

Leone’s hands around Mikhail’s, he jerks their hands to the side and headbutts Mikhail hard, the crack of their skulls meeting audible even over the chaos.

Mikhail staggers back, momentarily stunned, blood streaming from his nose in a fresh torrent.

It’s all the opening Leone needs. He lunges forward, reversing their positions with brutal efficiency.

They crash to the ground hard enough to knock the wind from Mikhail’s lungs.

In the struggle, the knife changes hands—now it’s in Leone’s grip, held with lethal intent.

Without hesitation, he plunges it into Mikhail’s chest with a furious grunt, the blade sinking to the hilt, pinning him to the dirt floor like an insect to a board.

Mikhail convulses, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

Blood froths at his lips as he gasps for air that won’t come, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Leone’s wrists.

Leone leans in close, whispering something I can’t hear, something meant only for Mikhail’s ears as he dies.

Whatever it is makes Mikhail’s eyes widen further before the light in them fades.

Across the barn, Milo is somehow back on his feet despite taking two bullets to his vest. He tackles Igor with savage force, knocking him backward into a stack of crates that collapse under their combined weight. They grapple violently, Milo clearly running on nothing except adrenaline and fury.

With a twist of his body, Milo gains the upper hand.

He pulls a pistol from Igor’s belt and cocks it in one smooth motion, pressing the barrel directly against Igor’s temple.

Igor’s hands go up in surrender, and Milo boots him, forcing him to the ground.

His finger hovers over the trigger, his chest heaving with exertion and pain.

I lurch forward, the gun still clutched in my hand. “No!” I shout, my voice raw and commanding. Milo’s eyes flick to me, questioning. “He doesn’t die quickly.”

Something dark and understanding passes between us. Igor killed my mother. A quick death is too merciful.

Milo’s chest heaves as he considers. His finger twitches over the trigger, temptation warring with what I just asked. Then, with a grunt of disgust, he lowers the gun and boots Igor straight in the head instead.

The crack is sickening and final. Igor drops like a sack of bricks, instantly unconscious yet still breathing.

The sudden silence is deafening. My ears ring in the absence of gunfire and shouting.

The room spins around me as the adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving me shaky and nauseated.

Mikhail’s body lies still, Leone still kneeling over him, covered in blood—his own and his enemy’s.

The knife remains embedded in Mikhail’s chest, a grotesque full stop to their decades-long feud.

Milo limps toward me, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, his face a mask of pain barely held in check.