I stifle a cry and sit back on my heels, my hands covered in his blood now along with my own. The calm I felt earlier is cracking, reality bleeding through like water through a dam. A sob works its way out of me and I bow my head, giving myself a moment to cry and grieve.
Michael O’Brien was a good and kind man. He had a wife and two kids who are now going to wonder why their father never came home.
And it’s all because of me.
He died trying to warn me. He wanted to help me even though I’m the reason he’s here. The reason any of them are here.
If I hadn’t let Leo take me. If I had fought harder, run away, done anything different?—
No. No, I can’t think like that. I can’t let the guilt swallow me whole because there are still people alive who need me. Leo needs me. Even my father, as wrong as he is, as misguided—he’s still my father and I don’t want him dead.
I stand up on unsteady legs, wiping my bloody hands on my leggings because there’s nothing else to do with them. The gun is on the floor next to Michael’s body and I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up again.
The weight of it feels different now. It’s heavier, more real.
A gun killed Michael. It’s killed a lot of people.
His words echo through my head—main hall. Michael said they’re in the main hall.
I have to stop this before anyone else dies. Before I lose anyone else.
But I can’t just leave Michael here. I can’t just walk away from his body like he didn't matter.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wiping my nose against my arm. I don’t know if I’m apologizing to Michael, to Marcus, or to all of them and their loved ones. “I’m so sorry.”
Then I run.
I pass through the kitchen where the smell of smoke is overwhelming, and windows are shattered. Bullet casings crunch under my feet like broken glass. Something is burning on the stove that’s been burning since the attack started. Thesmell of burned food mingles with smoke and blood and creates something nauseating.
I have to stop and brace myself against the counter for a second, my head spinning. When did I last eat? This morning? I can’t remember. My stomach is churning with morning sickness or fear or the smell of death, I don’t know anymore.
Deep breath. Keep moving.
I rush through what used to be a sitting room and is now just rubble and bodies. The windows are gone entirely, blown out by explosions or gunfire. There’s glass everywhere, embedded in the walls and glittering on the floor. The furniture is destroyed. The beautiful antique sofa I once admired is now just splinters and torn fabric.
But I can hear voices now. No, I can hear shouting voices.
My father’s voice, raised in fury. “You took my daughter! Youtook her!”
My heart clenches. I’ve never heard him sound like that. So out of control. So broken.
And Leo’s response, so devoid of emotion. “She’s not yours to take back.”
Oh god. Oh god, they’re going to kill each other.
I’m sprinting now, the gun heavy in my hand, my breath coming in gasps. My feet are slipping on blood and god knows what else, but I can’t slow down.
Around the corner, through the archway, and?—
I skid to a stop so fast I nearly fall, my shoes slipping in something wet I really don’t want to identify.
The main hall.
It’s worse than anything I’ve seen so far. It’s worse than I even imagined.
There are bodies everywhere. I try to count but lose track after twelve. Maybe fifteen. Maybe more. Brennan men and Santoro men mixed together in death, impossible to tell who was winning before it ended. The walls are pocked with bullet holes. There are dozens of them, maybe hundreds, and every painting is damaged or destroyed. The chandelier is hanging at a dangerous angle, half its crystals shattered on the marble floor. The marble itself is cracked and stained with blood. So much blood.
The smell is overwhelming and my stomach heaves, but I swallow it down, even as my mouth fills with saliva.