Two bullets whizz past me, almost grazing my ears. Two more bodies fall with a heavy thump against the floor as the echo of the gunshots bursts through my chest, and a sick satisfaction fills my veins.
Blood splatters the walls and lines the marble tiles in a deep crimson that would look absolutely delicious on Chiara's lips, and the moment Deago finally pulls himself together enough to try and command control of the few men left on their feet, it's already too late. He knows this is a losing game, but that doesn't stop him from trying.
"KILL THEM," he orders what's left of his men in a last-ditch effort to save himself.
With blood coating his face and shaking hands, he scrambles for a gun dropped by one of his fallen men, but I don't dare allow him the chance–not with the twenty-three lives that were lost last night still fresh in my head. Just as his fingers curl around the handle, I lift my hand and shoot a perfect, clean shot straight through the center of his wrist.
