Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Alley
Desperate and completely cornered, Marcus pulled a hidden snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster. He didn't aim at the police—he swung the barrel directly toward Lyra’s chest.
"If I lose everything, you don't get to live!" Marcus shrieked.
BANG.
A gunshot echoed through the ballroom. Guests screamed and scrambled for the exits, throwing tables over and shattering glassware.
Lyra didn't flinch. She felt the rush of wind as Dante moved with blinding speed, throwing his shoulder into her path and taking the brunt of the bullet in his tactical vest. The force knocked Dante back a step, but he didn't fall.
Before Marcus could pull the trigger a second time, Lyra closed the distance between them. Eight years of surviving on the unforgiving streets of Manhattan had turned her into something far faster and far more dangerous than an out-of-shape billionaire.
She grabbed Marcus’s wrist, twisted it upward with calculated precision, and delivered a devastating elbow strike to his jaw. Bone crunched. The gun flew from his hand, spinning across the marble floor.
Marcus collapsed onto his knees, spitting blood, clutching his broken face.
Lyra stood over him, her chest rising and falling slowly. She looked down at the man who had stolen her youth, her family, and her identity.
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"My father was a good man, Marcus," Lyra said softly, her voice carrying the weight of eight cold years. "You are nothing."
The federal agents swarmed forward, tackling Marcus to the floor and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.
