Chapter 21 - The Crimson Cascade
The crack of the rifle was not a sound; it was an earthquake that splintered my reality into jagged, bloody fragments.
Luca’s heavy body slammed into me with the force of a freight train, his arms wrapping around my torso like iron bands. The momentum drove us both over the mezzanine railing and down onto the velvet-draped stairs leading to the grand ballroom. We tumbled in a tangle of limbs, silk, and shattering crystal as the chandelier above us exploded, raining razor-sharp shards down upon the fleeing aristocracy.
Screams tore through the air. Pure, unadulterated pandemonium consumed the ballroom. Champagne flutes shattered, tables overturned, and the glittering elite of the city trampled over one another in a desperate stampede for the heavy oak exits.
"Luca!" I gasped, my lungs burning as we crashed onto the marble landing. My hands scrambled across his broad shoulders, frantic, searching for warmth, searching for life. "Luca, look at me!"
He rolled onto his back, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck looked ready to snap. His breathing came in ragged, wet hitches. The crisp, immaculate white of his tuxedo shirt was already blooming with a sickening, spreading pool of dark crimson right below his left collarbone. The bullet had missed his heart by mere inches—deflected only because he had seen Isabella’s frantic signing and twisted his body to shield me in that split second.
"I’m... fine," Luca ground out, his voice a low, gravelly snarl despite the pale sheen of shock washing over his olive skin. His right hand instantly clawed into his jacket, pulling his custom Beretta from its concealed shoulder holster. "Elena... stay down. Where is Isabella?"
My heart stopped. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of ice. "Isabella!"
I whipped my head toward the floor below. Through the swirling haze of smoke, fallen dust, and screaming crowds, I saw Marco. Luca’s chief of security was already moving like a lethal shadow. He had tackled Isabella to the floor the exact second the glass shattered, shielding the eight-year-old girl with his massive, Kevlar-clad frame.
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Isabella was trembling violently beneath him, her hands pressed tightly against her ears, her wide, hazel eyes darting across the carnage until they locked onto mine. When she saw the blood pouring over Luca’s chest, her tiny face contorted into an agony of silent weeping. Her hands fluttered out from beneath Marco’s coat, fingers shaking uncontrollably: *PAPA! PAPA!*
"She’s alive! Luca, she’s safe, Marco has her!" I cried
