The smell of gunpowder clung to the marble like a curse.

Vera’s ears rang; her heart drummed so hard it hurt. Smoke clouded the grand hallway, the chandelier overhead swinging from the concussive echo of the last bullet.

And in the middle of it all—Nicolas Bellanti lay sprawled across the floor, blood darkening the front of his shirt.

She didn’t remember dropping the gun. Only the sound of it clattering beside her knees as she stumbled to him.

“Nico… Nico, no.” Her hands pressed ...