Page 6 of Ruthless Enforcer

The cart shudders on its casters, screaming against the concrete before tipping over in an explosion of shattering porcelain, silver platters, and flying stemware.

The bastard scrambles back up out of the wreckage, blood pouring from his hairline, still gripping the knife. He lunges again with desperate fury.

Ducking under the wild swing, I catch him by the back of his neck with both hands and smash his face straight down into the heavy steel rim of the overturned cart. The crunch of bone is drowned out by his guttural cry as he collapses to the floor, clutching his face.

I move toward Clara, my hand out. “Let’s go.”

Her eyes are wide, focused behind me. “Gabriel⁠—"

“We don’t have time for⁠—”

“No.” She rushes forward and shoves me as a shot rings out.

“Fuck.” I push her down and take out my gun as I drop down, turn, and shoot the motherfucker in the head. He’s closer than I expected, and blood sprays everywhere. I watch him drop like a sack of dirt to the ground. I’m tempted to put a couple more rounds in him because he pissed me off, but I’m playacting for the cameras. That kind of random aggression is usually frowned upon.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.” Holstering my gun, I turn back to Clara.

She’s crouched down where I put her, one hand braced on the ground. There are dark-red droplets splattered all over her, dripping down her cheek and neck, onto her dress, making her emeralds look like they’re bleeding.

“Clara.” Everything in my head goes completely cold. For a terrifying half a second, the air in my lungs refuses to move. I force myself to breathe as I rush over and kneel next to her.

“Where?” I frame her face with my hands, my thumbs frantically sweeping across her skin, checking her jaw, her throat, the bare swell of her collarbone above the dark silk. “Where are you hit?”

Her green eyes widen in surprise. “I’m not⁠—”

“Hold still.” I drag my thumb through the smear along her neck, hunting for the wound, my chest hitching hard against my ribs. “Clara, look at me. Where are you bleeding?”

Her hands come up, wrapping tight around my wrists to stop my search. “Gabriel. It isn’t mine.”

I freeze, staring down into those steady, clear green eyes. Then I look at the dark streak on my thumb. Not hers.

The breath leaves me in one ragged, furious exhale. My brain catches up to what my body already refused to accept. She’s whole. She’s fine.

Clara looks down at the body on the floor, then slowly lifts her gaze back to mine. There are no hysterics. No screaming. Just that unsettling, razor-sharp composure. “You killed him.”

“Yes.” I wait. Maybe the hysterics are delayed. “He was going to harm you.”

Something subtle shifts behind her eyes—not terror, but the quiet calculation of a woman recalibrating what she’s dealing with. I’m starting to wonder if anything actually rattles her.

Down the hall, the first man lets out a slurred, drugged moan from the floor where the sedative is doing its job.

I glance down at him, then back at Clara. “See? Fifty percent survival rate.”

Her mouth drops open slightly. “Is this funny to you?”

I reach out, my thumb gently catching the dark smear on her cheek, wiping it clean. When I speak, there’s not an ounce of humor in my voice. “Not even a little.”

The words hang between us, heavy and raw, until in the distance, the service door bangs open. From the far end of the hall, shouting voices echo down the corridor—security, whether legitimate or dirty, I don’t care to stick around and find out.

I wrap my fingers around Clara’s hand, pulling her toward the loading exit. “We’re leaving.”

She looks at our joined fingers, then up at me as she matches my quickening stride. “Is this part of the rescue?”

“Officially.”

“Where are we going?” she asks as we hit the double push bars of the loading dock.

“Somewhere safe.” If only I knew where there was right now.