I start sprinting toward her.
The man is pulling a gun out of his coat. He’s thumbing off the safety, raising the barrel up.
I’m plowing through the crowd. I slam into a waiter, knocking the tray of champagne out of his hand. The glasses fly everywhere. I catch the silver tray out of the air and I sprint forward, shouting “NESSA!”
In slow motion I see the man point the gun right at her face. Nessa sees it, too. She freezes in place, eyes wide, dark brows flying upward. The dancers on either side of her cringe away. She’s all alone, unprotected, too startled to even put up her hands.
I leap forward, tray outstretched.
The gun goes off like a cannon.
I feel the jolt as it hits me, simultaneous with the noise.
I plow into Nessa, knocking her to the ground and covering her with my body. I don’t know where the first bullet hit. I expect to feel several more, riddling my back.
There’re three more shots, but I don’t feel any pain. I smother Nessa, keeping her trapped beneath me so nothing can hurt her. All through the screaming and stampeding of people trying to get away, I cover her up, keeping her safe.
When I open my eyes, I see the bloodied, snarling face of Kolya Kristoff. He’s lying on the ground in front of me. Completely dead.
Fergus Griffin stands over him, smoke still rising from the barrel of his gun. His face is contorted with rage, his green eyes glittering demonically behind the sensible frames of his glasses. Now I see it—the real fucking gangster behind the veneer of civility.
His eyes dart in my direction and I can read his thoughts as clearly as my own: he could move that gun an inch to the right and shoot me right now, solving the last of his problems.
Instead, he keeps it pointed right where it is and puts another bullet in Kristoff’s back. Then he tucks the gun back inside his suit jacket.
Callum Griffin is helping me up. I pull Nessa up too, frantically looking her over for signs of damage.
“Are you alright?” I ask her.
She’s shaking with shock, teeth knocking together, but she doesn’t seem hurt.
“I’m fine,” she says.
She’s clinging to me, her arms around my neck.
I see Fergus’ jaw twitch. Nessa is his baby girl—usually she’d run to him for comfort.
Callum picks up the silver tray. It’s got a dent the size of the softball, right in the center.
“Holy fuck,” he says. “How’d you know that would work?”
“I didn’t,” I say.
Imogen throws her arms around Nessa, tears rolling down her face.
“Oh my god,” she sobs, “I can’t take much more of this.”
“Callum,” Fergus says, sharply. “The police will be here in a minute. Take Aida and go home. You don’t need your name attached to this.”
He looks over at me.
“I assume you don’t have the cleanest record, either.”
“I’m not leaving without Nessa,” I tell him.
His expression softens ever so slightly. “I’ll be here with her,” he says. “We’ll give a statement to the police. Then we can meet you back at the house.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Riona says to him, folding her arms across her chest. “As legal counsel.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to leave Nessa, but Kristoff is dead. There’s no point fighting with Fergus. Not when we’re finally starting to get along.
I kiss Nessa softly on the lips. Her parents are watching, but I don’t give a damn.
“I’ll see you at the house,” I tell her. “You were unbelievable tonight, Nessa. Don’t let this detract from that. You’re a fucking star.”
She kisses me again, not wanting to let go of me.
I hear sirens, and I gently unclasp her hands from around my neck.
“See you soon,” I say.
As I turn to leave, Fergus claps me on the shoulder.
“Thank you,” he says, hoarsely. “You were quicker than me. I wouldn’t have made it in time.”
32
Nessa
It’s Christmas Eve.
My mother loves Christmas. Usually she throws a huge party. Or, if it’s just our family, we do all the little Irish traditions like making a ring of holly for the door and putting a candle in the window. Then we cook our own fudge, and pop popcorn in the fireplace, and we open one present each, which is always pajamas.
Tonight I’m doing something different.
I’m going to the north end of the city, to Mikolaj’s house.
I’ll be back in the morning to make pancakes and open presents with my parents.
But tonight it’s Miko and me, all alone, for the first time in a long time.
I was amazed my parents agreed to it. I think they realized after the ballet that this is real, and it’s not going away.
After all, Miko saved my life. He spotted Kristoff before anybody else. He blocked the bullet headed right for my face. Then he shielded me with his own body. That’s what gave my father time to shoot Kristoff in the back.
I guess the Bratva will be needing a new boss all over again.
Hopefully the new one won’t hold the same grudge. The Russians don’t take kindly to broken alliances.
Still, it was worth it if it finally proved to my parents that Mikolaj loves me. Really, truly loves me.
I’m driving to see him in a new Jeep, army green this time instead of white. It was an early Christmas present from the Gallos. Aida picked it out, and Nero worked his magic on it. It roars like a jet engine now, not to mention the giant A/T tires, winch, lift kit, and rock sliders he added. It looks like I could drive it over a mountain.
Really, I just cruise down to the studio most of the time. I’m already working on another ballet.
The tires are great in the snow. The wind is blowing in off the lake, savage and wet.
I don’t care. Not even a blizzard could keep me home tonight.
Miko’s watching for me. He opens the gates automatically as I approach. I drive up to the house, which looks taller and darker than ever under the blanket of white covering the roof.
The front door stands open. I leave the Jeep out front and I run inside.
I step into the glow of hundreds and hundreds of candles. The whole entryway is filled with them—all different heights and sizes, glimmering in the dark. The candles are white and the light they cast is rich gold, filling the space with the scent of smoke and sweet beeswax. Mikolaj is welcoming me home.
I follow the path through the candles, across the main floor, out to the conservatory.
It’s always summer in here. The plants are as thick and green as ever. Mikolaj is waiting for me on the bench, as I knew he would be. He stands up when he sees me. He’s dressed more formally than usual, in a button-up shirt and trousers, his hair carefully combed. I can smell his cologne, and beneath that, the heart-pounding scent of his skin.
I run into his arms, kissing him. The kiss goes on and on, neither of us wanting it to end. I’m so happy to be back here. I don’t know how such a strange place could suit me so well, but it does. It was made for me, a hundred years before I was even born. And Miko bought it for us, before he knew I existed.
When we finally break apart, he brushes the last of the melting snow from my hair.