Chapter 7
The attack came during the first snowfall of December.
Beautiful.
Silent.
Deadly.
Mary was building a crooked snow horse beside the frozen lake while Holly helped shape the head with mitten-covered hands.
For ten precious minutes, the estate almost felt normal.
Then Holly saw movement near the treeline.
Not snow.
A scope lens.
Everything inside her went cold.
“Mary,” she said calmly, “run to the house.”
The little girl blinked.
“Why?”
“NOW.”
The gunshot cracked across the lake.
Holly moved before sound finished reaching them.
She threw herself at Mary just as the bullet tore through the air where the child’s head had been.
Pain exploded through Holly’s shoulder.
Snow turned red.
Men shouted across the estate.
Weston appeared from nowhere with terrifying speed, gun already drawn.
Three shots.
The sniper vanished backward into the trees.
Chaos erupted.
But Weston barely noticed.
Because Holly lay in the snow bleeding while Mary screamed beside her.
Hours later, rain battered the hospital windows while surgeons removed the bullet.
Weston sat outside the operating room still covered in Holly’s blood.
Tristan approached carefully.
“You should change clothes.”
Weston didn’t move.
“She took the bullet for Mary.”
“Yes.”
Weston stared through the glass doors.
“She didn’t hesitate.”
Tristan’s voice lowered. “Neither would you.”
But Weston knew the difference.
People expected monsters to protect their own children.
Holly had no obligation.
No blood tie.
No contract.
Yet she had moved instinctively between death and his daughter.
That kind of loyalty could not be purchased.
And Weston Hargrove trusted almost nothing money could buy.
When Holly woke near dawn, Weston was sitting beside her hospital bed.
Not speaking.
Just there.
Her shoulder burned like fire.
“You should rest,” she whispered.
Weston looked exhausted in a way she had never seen before.
“You almost died.”
“So did your daughter.”
Silence.
Then Weston said quietly:
“I buried my wife after a car bomb meant for me.”
Holly turned slowly toward him.
“She was supposed to take another route home that night.” His jaw tightened. “I changed her plans last minute because I wanted dinner together.”
Pain filled the room like smoke.
“She died because she loved me enough to come home early.”
Holly understood then.
Not the mafia boss.
Not the violence.
The guilt.
Weston looked at her with frightening honesty.
“When you threw yourself over Mary…” His voice roughened. “I thought I was about to watch it happen again.”
Something shifted between them then.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Something deeper.
Recognition.
Two damaged people standing in the ruins left behind by violent men.
Then Weston did something nobody expected.
He reached into his coat and handed Holly a pistol.
Custom black steel.
Loaded.
Her eyes widened.
“What is this?”
“Permission.”
“For what?”
May you like
Weston’s expression turned glacial.
“To help me end Vincent DeMarco.”
