THE MOMENT THE PLANE HITS the runway, I leap to my feet.

I want to be anywhere but near Angel. Her threat still lingers in my ears, and there's a strangle prickling in my stomach. Apprehension.

"Dante?" I whisper, trying to shake him awake. "Are you okay?"

His head lolls to the side. His breathing rasps, becoming weaker and weaker. Panic stirs in my chest. Immediately, my gaze snaps to Dominic, and I say, "Please, carry him?"

We have finally landed in London, England. Our destination until we can figure out what happened to the Crown Jewels.

But right now, I don't care about anything but Dante. I think about his rogue grin, his smoldering stare, reduced to this―blue-and-black eyes, split knuckles.

How can I forgive Angel for this?

How can I ever see her as anything more than a monster, ruthless, heartless?

Who is willing to let someone die?

I brush past her on the way out of the airplane, making sure Dominic, who is carrying Dante in his arms like a sleeping child, is able to exit first. This is my fault. If only I hadn't forgotten about Dante, if I hadn't let him slip from my mind after that leering, awful man knocked me unconscious . . .

Following Dominic, I step out onto the concrete of the private landing. It is afternoon now, and bold midday sunlight stabs my eyes.

I try to blink away the hot light, my hand instinctively going up to shield my face.

Which is why, when the first bullet zips past me, all I can do is hear the whiz of it cutting through the air. Close enough to my ear that I can hear it.

Gunshots ring out, slamming into the metal side of the airplane.

Fear spikes, and my first thought is for Dante, injured, incapable of defending himself―

I hear cries ring out when I am wrenched to the side. My shoulder collides with the pavement, and I taste gravel and blood.

The sun is too bright to see where the shooters are, but I see the silhouette of Dominic's tall, muscular body. Dante struggles in his arms, finally awake, and Dominic lets go of him―I see Dante, stumbling.

The gunshots are louder, booming in my ears. I see blood pooling on the concrete. Whose is it?

Suddenly, as Dominic moves to the side―where he's going, I don't know―and Dante's lean form lurches.

"Get down! Get down!" I scream.

I try to stand up, but there is a sizzling coming from my arm, some kind of radiating heat. With something that feels like liquid shock, I realize the blood on the ground is mine.

I was shot.

But as Dante stumbles, an easy target for the people shooting, my thoughts clear. "Dante!" I roar. "Down! Please!"

He doesn't seem like he hears. I don't know where the rest of Angel's Mafia are, but I do know he is the only in focus, standing like a lunatic, like he wants to be shot―

I hear the telltale crack of another gunshot.

Before I can scream again, a slender, lithe form dives toward Dante. But it's too late: I see the arch of striking impact. Angel shoves Dante to the ground. I can see it slowly, as though I am trapped in a never-ending moment. Her mouth opens once, twice. Her chest is thrown forward. Her black hair is thrown over her shoulders, and I see a smear of blood on her face.

Where did it hit her? Where did it hit her?

Panic seizes me.

Filled with adrenaline, I stand up. Too much energy―I have too much energy in me, filling me, as I steady Angel's shoulders.

I hear more gunshots. Louder, more powerful.

I prepare to die.

But they're louder. Harsher. As though . . . they're right next to us.

And I realize Dominic and the rest of the Mafia members have military-grade weapons. Firing them at the end of the pavement. Explosions crack in the distance, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach.

Angel's head dips onto my shoulder. This time, it is me who sweeps her into my arms. Dante is already on his feet again, and the three of us stagger towards the back of the airplane, using it for cover. Gunshots rain in the distance.

They may have started this war, but we're ending it.

The thought should fill me with remorse, or pain. Dominic and the others are killing those people. But . . . I can only feel something like triumph. Nobody messes with us.

But that's not right. There's no us.

I slump against the back of the airplane. Dante's breathing is rapidly growing worse, and here, stuck in a crossfire, there is no way for him to get the help he needs. And Angel is . . . I shouldn't care. I shouldn't. She's a monster, and I can't forgive her. But―I think of the way she jumped in front of Dante. Saving his life.

She is in my arms, bleeding out. And I am debating on whether or not I still have feelings for her.

What is wrong with you, Cade?

Instead, I roll her over and tear open her jacket. She is wearing a white blouse, and it's soaked in blood. The entry wound is in the back of her shoulder . . . but there's no exit wound.

The bullet is still inside of her.

"Angel?" I say softly. It doesn't matter who she is. I need to find a way to save her. "Angel? Can you talk to me?"

She moans. "Course I can."

My chest starts to constrict. If she passes out, I can't get both her and Dante back into the airplane by myself―and that is where we need to go. Inside the plane.

"Dante?" I breathe. "We need to back in. I need to take this bullet out of her."

"You need to do what?" He looks like he's going to be sick.

I give him a withering look. "Come on," I say gently to Angel. "I need you to stand for me. Please." We don't have any other option. I don't know what to do if she says no. I'm a runner, not a weightlifter. I can't handle her, not even with this adrenaline.

But she nods, giving me a slow smile. "Let's go, baby."

If she can flirt, she's okay for now. With agonizingly slow steps, we make our way back to the front, where we climb up into the airplane. After I gently lay Angel on a seat, I rummage frantically through cabinets for strong alcohol.

They're Mafia. If anyone's going to have some good wine, it's them.

Sure enough, I find what looks―and tastes―to be moonshine. Then I find a panel of knives and guns. Deadly sharp. I pick the thinnest one I can find. It's not a scalpel, but . . . it's the best bet.

Dante is slouched in a seat. There is nothing I can do for him. He needs a real doctor, and all I'm equipped for is . . . well, things like this. I ease him onto the side so he can breathe better, and that's the most I know.

"Hey, Angel?" I say, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. It's because she's in pain, I think. Because I can't stand seeing her―anyone―in pain. She shivers uncontrollably, and blood is soaking into her white shirt.

"What is it, Cade?"

I use a knife to tear off the shoulder of her shirt. If the blood is pulsing uncontrollably, the bullet is stopping it from clotting. I need to get it out of her, now.

"I need to take out the bullet," I say quietly. Her eyes are half-open, and she holds her stomach as she laughs. She's in shock, and when it wears off . . . it'll be much worse .

"Is that okay?" I whisper.

She nods quickly. Her mouth is pressed shut. "Do it. Fast."

I shake my head. "I need to do it without creating a worse injury. I don't want to give you an infection."

Her face contorts, likely considering what this will mean. I ease her onto her stomach, so I have access to the shoulder where the bullet is lodged. Blood soaks into her skin, and I can barely see the entry wound.

"I'm going to pour alcohol, and it's going to hurt like hell," I say. "Do you need something to scream into?"

Angel uses the sleeve of her blouse to bite into. As I move to tip the bottle, her hand lashes out suddenly and grabs mine. Squeezing it.

"On the count of five," I say. "Five . . . four . . ."

I pour the alcohol into her wound.

>>>

So! You made it this far.

You're probably reeling. I don't blame you.

What do you think of Angel saving Dante? So much for being a heartless bitch.

This chapter didn't get steamy, and for those of you who were waiting for that, sorry. But I can tell you there's something waiting for you in the next chapter . . . so just hold on a little longer.

To the moon and back,
Sarai