“Let me pour a round.” I hurry forward, reaching Kieran and the current winning hand for the bottle of whiskey. “Don’t do it,” I mutter as low as I can as I brush his shoulder.
“What was that?” The possible winner asks, his voice dark and low. “What the fuck did you just tell him?”
“I asked if he wanted a shot?” My fingers barely brush the whiskey bottle before I’m grabbed by my shoulder and thrown back from the table.
“No. You told him not to do it? Not do what? Place a bet?” He looks across the table to Frank. “This asshole’s been winning a lot tonight.”
Frank’s eyes narrow on Kieran. “You using this girl to help you win?”
“I didn’t do anything. If she wants to mutter shit under her breath, that’s on her.”
“So you’re a fucking cheat?”
“I’m no fucking cheat.” Kieran jumps to his feet.
Frank’s chair flies back as he gets up, a small revolver in his hand, pointed right at Kieran.
“Oh my god. No. Stop!” I yell. “Please don’t!”
The door flies open as a security guard responds to the noise, at the same time as Frank fires his gun. Kieran jolts back. Blood sprays, covering me. He falls to the floor, blood pooling beneath him soaking into the wood flooring.
“Oh god!”
I blink away the warm blood on my face, settling my gaze onto Kieran. His eyes are open, but lifeless.
When I look back up, Frank has his gun pointed at me.
There’s yelling. Men cursing at each other, but all I can hear is the blood whooshing through my ears.
“Frank!” Ivan’s presence draws my attention. His voice cuts through the panic.
“Ivan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can manage before my voice cracks and tears roll down my cheeks.
His eyes slice through the room, cold and unblinking as they devour the scene before him. No flicker of emotion. Just the slow drag of a gaze that catalogues everything—me included. A bored, almost cruel curve pulls at his mouth as he steps inside. He’s calm, collected. A man in complete control of a situation that’s gone off the rails.
Two of his men step inside with him, shut the door. The music and noise from the lounge seem to have drowned out thesound of the gun firing. No one seems concerned about what’s happening in here.
“Frank, I would appreciate it if you would take your gun off my fiancée.” His shoes clicking along the wood flooring is the only sound as he takes the short walk to Kieran’s dead body.
“Your fiancée?” Frank lowers his gun, shocked eyes flickering to me. “She’s your fiancée?”
He steps over Kieran’s body without a second glance, each footfall deliberate, controlled. When he stops, he’s directly in front of me—close enough I can feel the quiet rage masked by his stillness.
Silently, he wipes his thumb over my cheek, then rubs his bloody thumb against his fingers.
“Are you all right?” His question is soft, firm.
“Yes.” I breathe easier. “I am. I’m sorry.”
He cuts me off with a slight shake of his head. A silent demand for me to stay quiet. Let him handle this.
“You drew your gun in my club.” Ivan turns to face Frank.
The rest of the players sit stock still in their seats. The man to Kieran’s right, the man who’d heard my warning, has blood drying on his face.
“He was cheating. She—your fiancée—helped him.”
Frank drops the gun to the table, a show that he’s not on the attack.
