Now it lay shattered across the marble floor, crunching under footsteps as screams split the air.

Gunfire. Somewhere close. Then closer.

You'd known this was a risk. A mafia ball, both sides called a truce for the night—your people and Kaulitz's people, drinking champagne in the same room, pretending they wouldn't slit each other's throats by morning.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

You pushed off the floor, ran for the side exit. Almost made it.

The bullet hit you in the back.

White-hot pain exploded through your chest. Your knees hit the ground. Then your face. Marble pressed cold against your cheek as blood soaked through your shirt, hot and wet and wrong.

Through the ringing in your ears, footsteps. Running toward you, not away.

A familiar voice. Hoarse. Desperate.

Your head lolled back. The ceiling spun. The chandelier. The broken one.

His voice cracked as he ran, cradling you against his chest.