Page 32 of Risk

“I don’t think I will,” Krill said. She couldn’t imagine standing up to Vincent with the lack of respect that Krill showed. “Because I’m going to leave, and I’m taking her with me. If you don’t follow, she might stand a chance. But if you do…”

His grip on her throat tightened, and the strangled gasp that escaped her had Vincent stepping forward, the same fear as before breaking through his icy rage. Kiera clawed at his arm, but he completely restricted her breathing, and no matter how she moved, she couldn’t free herself.

“You’re not going anywhere,” another voice said on the other side of the street. She couldn’t see the voice, but she recognized the voice, and relief coursed through her. Vincent wouldn’t be alone.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a young and handsome man walking down the other side of the street, gun in hand and glancing between Marco and Vincent with a firm expression. Kiera’s eyes went back to Vincent’s, and he glanced down before meeting her eyes again. Her brows furrowed. What did he expect her to do with a gun to her head?

“If I’m not getting out of this situation, neither is she,” Krill said, his body moving in a way that showed his distraction. He hadn’t expected so much backup, and he was quickly realizing he was trapped.

“What did you think you’d do?” Marco asked. “Kill my best boxer and take Vincent’s girl from under his nose? You thought we’d let you get away?”

Kiera’s mind took in all the possible ways the situation could end as the third man raised his gun, further cornering Krill.

“Do you want her to die?” he shouted, shaking the gun against her head. She realized that it wouldn’t end well—that he’d likely kill her out of spite, knowing he’d be caught. Taking in the scene with a growing panic on his face, Vincent seemed to realize the same thing. He’d prepared Kiera, knowing that she may be put in a position of danger, and she recalled, despite the growing panic, that she had an advantage that Krill wouldn’t expect.

“Please,” she begged, dropping one arm and lowering it to her thigh… pulling her dress up slightly. “Please, don’t.”

“Shut up,” he shouted in her ear, and she winced but gripped the small blade that Vincent had insisted she hid beneath her dress. Her grip was held with trembling fingers as she lifted it and, without hesitation, swung it back at him.

She felt the impact of it embedding into his side beneath her hand. He involuntarily released her, grabbing for his side, and everything happened simultaneously. A gunshot exploded as Vincent rushed forward, gathering her into his arms as she stared at the hand that had plunged the knife into him.

Vincent’s arms circled her, pulling her body into his chest. She hardly noticed as his hand moved down her thigh, tugging the dress over the makeshift blade holster she’d worn at her thigh. Her body’s trembling grew until she used him for support. She tried to turn and look at the carnage she knew remained of Krill’s body, but he didn’t allow it, holding her firmly to his chest while the other two people—Marco and the dark-skinned man who had appeared last—dealt with the body.

Nobody heard, she realized. The people in the gallery had been charging to witness the shooting that occurred out front when she’d been taken through the back. And the shot thatMarco had fired at Krill had been silenced so that only they could hear it, drawing no outsiders’ attention.

It felt like they stood there for hours, and Vincent didn’t release her. Not even when the two men had stopped their bustling and left the mercifully empty street. She didn’t release her grasp on his shirt until she knew she could stand on her own again, and Vincent allowed her for that time, despite the work she had no doubt he had to do. While Vincent was a man to be reckoned with—a deadly mafia soldier who deserved respect and fear from all—he didn’t release his comforting grip on her.

For her, he’d allow himself a moment of softness.

Only for her.

20

Vincent stood outside the glass windows to the day-brightened gallery they’d attended a week before. Kiera looked through the glass windows with an expression that gave away nothing of what she thought, but he could easily imagine the horrors that ran through her mind.

“I just,” she started, taking a deep breath and shaking her head with a squeeze to his hand. “I just don’t understand why we need to come back here after what happened.”

“Are you scared of this place?”

“No.” Her response was quick and thoughtless. “But I don’t understand why you’re bringing me back here when it’s empty.”

He knew at least a tinge of fear would come from coming back, which was why he didn’t dare to bring her through the back entrance again. The only actual shooting that had happened that night was the one involving Laker in the back. The secondary shot had been a distraction—fired by James. When Luca had spotted Krill at the back entrance of the gallery, Marc rounded the building, Vincent entered the gallery, and James worked his way around the other way to fully corner their target.

The front of the building shouldn’t have brought up as severe a reaction.

He looked down at her and took a step up into the door, pushing it open and entering the small building, pulling her behind. He’d thought for a long time about what he was about to offer her, and he knew it would come with as many risks as remaining by his side, but Kiera had never stepped down from a challenge. Especially when he was involved.

“You told me you couldn’t afford California,” he told her.

Her eyebrows raised. “That’s true,” she said, her voice rising on the last words. “And I’m staying another year to save the remaining cost. You’re not going to ask me to give up my dreams of attending art school, are you?”

He felt the fire behind her words—the pure resilience that had brought him to his knees before her. All other spouses before her had given in to his strength and dominance, but she matched him in spirit, and it was something he’d never take for granted. Though in the bedroom… she would never take control there.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you,” he told her, speaking truthfully. The idea of her leaving him for California one day clawed through his chest with bitter resistance, but he could make it work, even if he created a new splinter cell across the country.

“Good, because I was afraid you’d try to convince me to stay.”

“No,” he told her, stopping beside the central pillar in the room where her painting had hung a week before. “I’m going to convince you to leave the Grotto.”

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