Chapter 7 - The Gala of Blood
The underground casino was a masterclass in illicit luxury. Crystal chandeliers hung low over velvet-lined tables, the air thick with the scent of expensive cigars and millions of dollars changing hands in silence.
Julian and I entered arm-in-arm. The moment we stepped onto the casino floor, heads turned. The red dress did exactly what Julian said it would do—it stopped time. I felt the predatory gazes of dangerous men crawl over my skin, but Julian’s grip on my waist was ironclad, a silent warning to everyone in the room: Mine.
We made our way to the VIP table in the back. Sitting at the head of the table was Lorenzo. He looked like a twisted, younger version of Julian—handsome, but with a cruel, unstable edge to his smile. He didn't recognize Julian, thanks to a pair of thick glasses, a changed hairstyle, and the fact that Julian was supposed to be dead.
Lorenzo’s eyes locked onto me, immediately filled with disgusting lust.
“Well, well,” Lorenzo purred, standing up. “I didn't know they let angels into hell. Who is this stunning creature?”
“My fiancé, Clara,” Julian said, his voice disguised with a slight European accent. “We’re here to play.”
“Please, sit,” Lorenzo gestured, staring directly at my chest.
For five agonizing minutes, I played the part. I laughed at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes, flirted just enough to keep his attention entirely on me, and sipped champagne while my heart beat like a war drum. Beneath the table, Julian’s hand rested on my thigh, keeping me grounded.
Three... two... one...
Suddenly, the casino was plunged into absolute darkness. Marco’s team had cut the power.
Chaos erupted. Women screamed, tables were overturned.
“Stay down!” Julian roared, grabbing me by the waist and shoving me under the heavy mahogany poker table just as the backup emergency lights flickered on, casting the room in a sickly red glow.
Gunfire shattered the room. Deafening, concussive blasts echoed as Julian’s men engaged the Bratva guards.
“Clara, stay under the table!” Julian ordered, drawing his weapon.
“Julian, watch out!” I screamed.
Lorenzo had drawn a silver pistol and was aiming directly at Julian’s back. Before he could fire, Julian spun with terrifying speed, firing two shots into Lorenzo’s chest. The younger brother collapsed against a roulette wheel, his blood painting the green felt.
“Let’s move!” Marco shouted through the smoke.
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Julian grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet, and we ran. We sprinted through the kitchens, dodging stray bullets, the sound of breaking glass and sirens filling the air. We burst through the back exit into the freezing night, diving into the back of a waiting armored SUV.
As the car sped away, Julian pulled me into his lap, burying his face in my neck, his chest heaving. We had survived. But the war had just turned nuclear.
