Page 57 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

In normal places like bars and restaurants, when thugs barge in with guns blazing, hysterical screams usually follow. Not at Naos, though. Other than pained gasps and quiet curses when someone gets hit, the rapid rat-a-tat and bang bang of gunfire are the only sounds.

“When are they going to turn the damn power back on?” Jelena grumbles beside me as she opens the hidden trapdoor in the floorboards. “What if we hit one of ours by mistake? Sig or Beretta?”

“Beretta, please. It’ll take a few minutes to get the generator up and running.” I grip the gun she holds out for me, then toss the other to Iliya, who’s crouching a few feet to my left.

“You two don’t move from here until this is over,” Iliya barks as he catches the Sig. “Drago will have my hide if something happens to you. You hear me, Tara?”

“Got it,” I lie.

There are only two emergency pod lights behind the bar, built in so close to the floor that I need to lean way down to be able to check the magazine.

It’s hard to know how many attackers there are because the raging firefight is all around us.

It’s like everyone present is shooting at the same time.

If this were later at night, all firearms would have been securely stowed away upon entry into the club, but rules allow Naos patrons to keep their guns on them between opening hours and around nine at night.

“Is there a point to all this shooting when no one can see shit?” A few more bottles explode above me; glass and liquor rain down on my head.

The stench of multiple spirits is more than pungent, irritating my eyes and nose.

I press myself flatter to the back bar counter and cock my gun while my thigh muscles scream in protest. Crouching in heels is a real bitch, especially while trying not to slip in the puddle of spilled alcohol.

The overhead lights flicker to life just as a man armed with an Uzi leans over the bar counter right above Jelena. I react without a second thought, snapping my arm upward and shooting him in the head.

Jelena raises her shapely eyebrow. “That was fast. Are you sure he wasn’t one of ours?”

“He’s wearing a brown bandanna around his forehead.”

My brother insists on a very strict dress code at Naos. No way anyone wearing a casual outfit, even as gang colors, would have been let inside.

Avoiding shattered bottles and shards of glass, I duckwalk to the edge of the bar and peek out into the main space.

The booth dividers, which provide privacy but are actually bulletproof frosted glass obstacles that were installed specifically in case something like this happens, are still intact.

Drago is adamant about having armored furniture around.

Most of the guests and club staff have taken cover behind these barriers and are shooting in the direction of the main entrance.

One of the overhead speakers has crashed to the floor, breaking the stone tiles into a billion little pieces. Fuck, my brother is soooo going to lose his shit over that. He imported those tiles from Spain.

As far as I can see, there’s only one casualty from our side. The body of the guy I suspect was a hitman is sprawled near the booth where he was seated. Adriano Ruffo is down on one knee next to him, firing at the attackers from a big-ass gun in a disturbingly casual manner.

The gang members, though, haven’t fared as well.

Three dead next to the entrance and another a little further inside, close to the edge of the dance floor.

Only one appears to still be alive, hidden by a stone pillar a few feet away from the main doors.

He’s shooting randomly into the interior, trying to hit anyone in his sights.

That means there are six assailants, including the man I offed just now.

A rather small force for a raid of this kind.

Perhaps they didn’t expect much resistance?

“Tara!” Jelena grabs the hem of my shirt, yanking me backward. “There are more coming from the back!”

Shit. Keeping low and pointing my gun ahead, I follow Jelena to the other end of the bar where Iliya is slumped on the floor, pressing a hand to his bleeding side.

“Use this.” I pass him a bar towel I grabbed from a cubby and crane my neck, taking a look through the narrow gap below the liquor shelves and just above the back bar counter. It serves as quick access to extra supplies lined up on the ledge that runs along the other side of the mirrored wall.

The club’s back entrance is located in the storage room right behind that wall, tucked between the beer crates stacked on either side.

Five more gang dudes in ratty jeans and oversized sweatshirts are pouring through the doorway.

With how our bar is set up, there’s no way for anyone up front to see the incoming hostiles.

Jelena and I are the only ones aware of the new threat, and she’s currently busy trying to stop Iliya from bleeding out.

What are my chances of shooting all five thugs before they can kill me?

Pretty slim, but I don’t have a choice but to try.

They’re less than ten feet from us anyway.

I duck back down and take a deep breath. The wet cabinetry and my own sweat are starting to make me feel sticky. Here goes nothing. Gripping the gun in my hand, I spring up, aiming at the back door through the gap between two Johnnie Walker bottles.

The two guys closest to the entrance drop to the ground simultaneously.

What?

I blink, and two more collapse face down on the floor.

The last would-be attacker spins around just as another gunshot explodes through the air. The man’s legs fold under him, and he slumps over, revealing a backlit figure in a black suit standing at the threshold. His arms bent at his sides; a gun at the ready in each hand.

I lower my weapon, staring at my husband, while Arturo steps over the dead guy and heads my way.

The shooting has stopped in the main part of the club. In the sudden stillness, the heavy fall of his soles on the tiled floor echoes like thunder in my ears. He slips his weapons into their holsters as his gaze fixes on me.

I follow him with my eyes until he reaches the edge of the dividing wall and then emerges in full view at the end of the bar counter. A couple more steps, and he stands right in front of me.

“Having too much fun to answer my calls, Tara darling?”

“You could say that. How was your day?”

Quiet chatter erupts from the people behind me, and I realize that our exchange has drawn attention from everyone left inside. The weight of dozens of eyes suddenly drops on me. I can feel them all watching us, and it’s making me nervous as hell.

“Eventful.” Arturo puts his hands in his pants pockets. “I was under the impression you understood we are still on high alert. So, what the fuck are you doing here? Without your guards, I might add.”

“Naos is considered one of the safest places in town, DeVille.”

“Oh really? My bad, then. I guess I just wasted a dozen goons to get to you for no goddamned good reason since you were, obviously, PERFECTLY SAFE! WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“Don’t yell at me, DeVille!” Something wet slides into the corner of my eye, and I quickly wipe it away while trying to keep my composure in front of this infuriating man. “I have a nearly full magazine in my Beretta, and I sure as hell know how to—”

“Is that BLOOD?”

I look at my hand. There’s a red stain across my knuckles. I must have got nicked by a glass fragment and didn’t notice with all the shit going down. Whatever. “Do not change the subj—”

His fingers seize my chin, tilting my head to the side. “Tara.” A low rumbling growl leaves his throat.

“I’m fine.” I brush his hand away. “Will you stop interrupting me? You’re making a scene, by the way. And we both know how much you enjoy doing that in public. This place is a mess, and I need to— DeVille! Put me down!”

“No,” he grunts as he carries me toward the storage room. “We’re going home to have our scene in private.”

“Are you nuts? The police are probably on their way, and Iliya needs medical care. I have to—”

“You are not a lawyer. Nor a doctor. What you are, is my wife. And currently, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a fucking scratch, Arturo!”

“Mm-hmm. And that’s definitely a conditioned reflex.”

“What?”

He walks into the storage room and navigates around the racks of supplies near the back door. I spot two more dead bodies.

“You only say my name when one of us is bleeding.” He kicks the door open, stepping outside. “Do you feel nauseated? Headache?”

“I don’t have a damn concussion! Now, put me down.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

He stops next to his SUV and pins me with a death stare.

“Because, if I do, I might go back inside the club, where I’ll kill every man in Drago’s employ for failing to keep you safe.

And unharmed. Because, my dearest wife, I’m still not over my panic that I wouldn’t get here in time.

That I’d arrive, and you’d be dead or dying.

And now that I have my hands on you, there’s no way I’m letting you go.

But mostly, because if my hands were free, I might just strangle you myself for scaring me shitless. ”

My lips twitch upon hearing his words. “Let me get this straight. You were worried about me. Yet you want to kill me. Or, do you want to kill me because you were worried for me?”

“It’s a toss-up,” he growls and slams his mouth to mine.

“I think”—I nip Tara’s lower lip and kick the front door shut—“we need to check out your wound first.”

“It’s fine,” she says while fumbling with the buckle of my belt.