We landed hard on a padded mat. Roza promised it would break our fall, but I still felt it in my knees and elbows. The priest seemed worse than me—dazed and grimacing in pain. I tugged him and whispered, “We gotta move.”
Roza slammed down onto the mat after. “Oh shit,” she said. “That wasn’t soft at all.”
I glared at her.
“What are you talking about?” The priest looked around, wild and uncertain. He was one of the holes in the plan. We couldn’t tell him what would happen, but I also wouldn’t let Roman leave him up in the line of fire.
The gunshots started blasting through the room, overwhelming the screams of fear and surprise.
I pulled the priest and scrambled to what looked like a decorative backsplash, but was actually made of a thick, bullet-proof material. I got behind it and nudged the priest until he was curled up safely out of the way of the shooting. Roza scrambled in with us, her phone out, tapping away like she was livestreaming the whole thing.
“What’s happening?” the priest shouted, shoving his hands over his ears.
I didn’t bother answering. He wouldn’t hear me anyway.
I risked a look around the corner. Roman had men stationed on either side of the group of guests with rifles. Men and women screamed as they ran to get out of the way of the massacre, and I had no clue how many how many people were getting ripped to pieces out there—and Roman didn’t seem to care. When I’d asked him if more innocent people needed to die for his revenge, he’d only laughed and said there wasn’t a single innocent person in attendance, and I had to believe him.
I crawled toward the altar. “Cassie, wait!” Roza called after, but I didn’t stop. I should’ve stayed hidden like we planned, but I had to see what was happening. I needed to see that Roman was okay, that he wasn’t hurt—I was desperate to find him, desperate and terrified.
More screaming and panicking. One of Roman’s men fell over with a bullet to his skull, blood splattered everywhere.
People were shooting back at them. Where did they come from? I looked over the top of the platform—
A small group of men were hiding behind chairs. Most of the other guests had scattered, though some still lingering in the front of the building, and some lay dead in the aisle. Blood, so much blood everywhere, and the venue was a wreck—holes in the walls, lights blown out, glass strewn across the tiles.
The few remaining soldiers fired on Roman’s guards, trying to push them away, but they were outnumbered and outgunned.
The Irish dropped, one by one, until the room was filled with a haze of gunpowder smoke and my ears rang from the deafening slaughter.
Roman was gone. Erick crouched nearby, pressed up against the side of the altar, gun raised.
“Erick!” I hissed his name until he looked over.
His face twisted into anger. “Get back into cover.”
“Where’s Roman?”
Erick pointed—
My husband stood in the middle of the room, his suit splashed with red, thick oozing red on his hands and chest, a smoking pistol pointed toward a body on the ground at his feet, his teeth bared like an animal.
He looked crazed and wild and beautiful, all wrapped into one.
He turned, and met my gaze. For one horrible moment, there was nothing behind those eyes, until he frowned, shook his head, then looked away.
Oisin MacKenna was stuck in his chair with my father crouched behind him. They were both untouched, unhurt.
Roman strode toward them like an avenging angel floating over a battlefield.
