Page 35 of Vendetta Vows

While they search, I approach where Mikhail lies. They've covered him with a sheet, but I can see the familiar outline of his body. Somehow, under this shroud, he looks small.

He was only eighteen,I remind myself.Still a boy.

I kneel beside him, ignoring the protests of the crime scene technicians. With gentle fingers, I pull back the edge of the sheet.

My throat tightens at the sight of his face. He looks peaceful, almost asleep, except for the small, dark hole in his chest where the bullet entered. The bullet that shouldn't have been there.

My fingers hover over the edge of the wound. Such a tiny little thing. Yet it changed so much in an instant.

"Who did this to you, Misha?" I whisper in Russian, fighting to keep the quiver from entering my voice. "Who took you from us?"

Slowly, I place the shroud back over Mikhail's face and stand up to look at the scene of the accident, hoping to find something—anything—that might help me understand just what the fuck happened.

That's when the small, jagged hole in the wall behind Mikhail's body catches my eye. I stride over, pushing past a security guard who tries to block my path.

"Mr. Dragunov, this is an active crime scene and the police will?—"

"Step aside." My voice silences him instantly.

I examine the bullet hole, running my finger along its edge. And then I see it, the small splattered form of the bullet lodged in the wall.

"I need to see the prop weapon. Now."

The weapons master hurries over, carrying the pistol in an evidence bag. I snatch it from his hands. One look, and I know this can't be the gun that killed Mikhail.

I've seen enough bullet holes to know the difference between a pistol round and a high-caliber one.

Instinctively, I turn around and scan the landscape beyond the set.

There!

A gentle slope rising about four hundred yards behind our location. Perfect elevation. Clear line of sight. No obstructions.

A sniper's dream position.

"This was a hit," I mutter to myself, feeling cold certainty settle over me.

My nephew was assassinated in broad daylight, surrounded by witnesses, in a way designed to look like a tragic Hollywood accident.

On the same day as my brother.

I stand up and face the weapons master again. "Where is Aurora Castellanos?"

He shrugs. "She was here when it happened, but?—"

"Nobody's seen her since," a PA finishes.

My eyes narrow as I scan the rest of the set. And that's when I notice a redhead shifting nervously near the edge of the crowd. She looks familiar, and it takes another second for me to remember that she was the same woman who was with Aurora at the production party.

But most importantly, her eyes keep darting toward a side door.

I hand the prop gun back and make my way through the crowd towards her. She startles when she sees me approaching.

"You." I keep my voice even. "What's your name?"

"Hannah," she supplies, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Where is Aurora Castellanos, Hannah?"

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