Chapter 8 - A Bullet in the Chandelier
The lock didn't turn. It exploded.
A breaching charge blew the deadbolt inward with a concussive bang that shook the plaster from the ceiling. Through the smoke, two silhouettes in tactical gear entered the room, red laser sights cutting through the gloom.
Larkin fired twice. The first operative collapsed with a muffled grunt, the heavy impact of his body shaking the floorboards. The second operative swept his submachine gun toward the desk, spraying a hail of suppressed rounds that tore the mahogany wood to splinters above our heads.
Wood fragments rained down on us. Larkin ducked, firing blind around the corner of the desk to suppress the shooter, but his slide locked back on an empty chamber.
"Out," Larkin grunted, ejecting the spent magazine.
The gunman took two aggressive strides forward, aiming directly into our alcove. He had the drop on Larkin. There was no time to reload.
I didn't think. Instinct, sharpened by years of surviving on the edge of ruin, took over.
I launched myself from the floor, clutching the steel-tipped stiletto in my right hand. I drove the five-inch metal heel with all my strength straight down into the unarmored instep of the operative's boot.
The steel spike punched clean through the leather and into bone.
The man shrieked—a raw, agonized sound—and his aim jerked upward, firing a burst into the ceiling that shattered the crystal chandelier above. As he doubled over in blinding pain, Larkin lunged forward, grabbed the barrel of the weapon, twisted it from his grip, and delivered a devastating elbow strike directly to the man’s throat.
The operative hit the floor, unconscious and choking.
Larkin stood over the bodies, his chest heaving, his tuxedo jacket torn, blood spattered across his white shirt. He turned to look at me.
I was standing in bare feet on the shattered glass of the chandelier, holding my bloody stiletto, my black dress covered in plaster dust, breathing hard.
Larkin stared at me in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. For a second, he looked genuinely terrified—not of the gunmen, but of the realization of who and what I was.
Then, a low, wild laugh broke from his lips.
"Steel tips," he breathed, shaking his head in absolute disbelief. "You turned five-hundred-dollar shoes into lethal weapons."
"Four-hundred," I corrected, wiping a streak of dust from my cheek. "And they were on sale."
Before he could respond, more gunfire erupted down the hall, followed by the booming voice of Don Rossi's heavy enforcers sweeping the mezzanine.
May you like
"We need to get downstairs," Larkin said, snatching the tactical weapon from the floor and reloading his own sidearm with fresh brass. He grabbed my hand, his fingers intertwining tightly with mine. "Thomas thinks he’s walking out of here as the new head of the family. Let’s go show Don Rossi the bill."
***
