The man brings the gun down to the center of my forehead. My organs liquify. I’m shaking to my core.

“Stubbornness gets you killed. A hard lesson to learn.” He clicks his tongue as if it shames him to murder me, but that’s just the way of business.

Hot tears roll down my face. I force myself to lift my gaze and look into the eyes of a killer.Mykiller. I hope my family finds peace. I hope that they bring my death to justice. I hope they will fight for me, even when I’m gone.

“You’ve chosen this,” he whispers as if it’s my fault he must kill me.

My throat seals shut. I take a deep breath through my nose, maybe the last one I’ll ever get. I refuse to give these men any information. They’ll find it on their own, but at least I won’t die with the guilt in knowing that I sold out innocent people. I picture Veronica at her desk again, her headphones on, her hot pink painted nails clacking away at her keyboard as she hums to the beat of her music.

There’s no way out of this. Even if I try to run, he’ll shoot me anyway, or the men will grab me and do unspeakable things to my body.

Just as I’m resigning myself to my fate, I hear a door burst open and loud footsteps pounding across the floor.

Two men rush in, guns aiming at the group. “Drop your weapons!” a grizzly of a man shouts. His shoulders are like a mountain, his head like a boulder. His eyes are vicious as he points a handgun at the men surrounding me.

A loud bang goes off. My eardrums nearly explode from the sound of it. I scream and instinctively press my palms to the sides of my temples, dropping my head to my knees.

Another bang shatters the air around me. My head snaps back up, my eyes darting, trying to find the danger so I can try to get away from it. I want to spring to my feet and flee, but fear freezes me in place, refusing to let me save myself.

Another man emerges from behind the towering man. He’s holding a pistol too, pointing it at the thugs.

“I said drop your weapons now!” He roars. The tendons in his neck bulge. He towers over most of the men. He’s wearing an expensive tailored suit with no tie, the blazer the color of slate, matching the sharpness of his piercing gray eyes.

My breath catches for a moment, and I’m stunned, my mouth dropping open. I recognize this man charging forward, yelling orders with an air of authority and not a single ounce of fear.

It’s David Petrov, the Russian mafia boss. I instantly recognize him from all the research I’ve been doing on his crime rings the last few weeks.

My heart does a giant leap, stemming from adrenaline and fear, but also, something else. A thrill?

He’s so attractive in a way that a man can be when he can draw the attention of the entire room, with or without violence, I know he often has this type of presence.

He exudes confidence and danger. His broad shoulders are straight, the angles of his cheekbones sharp, his jawline enough to make any woman feel dizzy.

I cower in the corner, tremors going through my bones as I watch him and his male companion moving with determination.

The gun running men scatter like bugs, but I notice they are shooting first. I clutch my head in my hands, staring at the gun fight through my fingers. I’m terrified that I’ll be hit with a stray. Maybe I already have and just haven’t noticed. Adrenaline can do that to you.

A few men in the back I hadn’t noticed before run out of the warehouse. David whirls around, his eyes landing on me and narrowing.

His helper starts to race toward the door to chase the others, but David holds a hand up. “Wait!”

The man halts in his tracks and turns on his heels.

“Stop,” David says. He’s used to getting his way, giving out orders and having them be obeyed without question.

I try to swallow but my throat feels tight and dry. David starts walking toward me, his expensive, shiny shoes now covered in a layer of dirt and dust. I feel like he’d be more bothered by that than almost getting shot.

His eyes train on me and I fix my gaze right back at him, unable to look away. Plus, I don’t want to look at the still, lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor around me. Anything is better than that, even the devilish icon that is David Petrov.

The hard angles in his face dissolve into something resembling protection. Confusion courses through me like a pulse,dissolving my fear a little. He can’t possible be here to protect me. He’s the very man I came to ruin.

He walks slower when he approaches me, stopping at a careful six foot distance. He reaches out a large hand and I stare at it, then stare at him, unmoving.

“Look at you,” he says, without an ounce of venom in his voice. “You’re shaking.”

I have no voice. I can’t move.

He takes another cautious step toward me.