Entangled with the Mafia Don novel Chapter 70

Ezra's POV

"Two."

The syllable had barely left my lips when the world dissolved into a predatory dance. Ivan didn’t go for his gun—he went for the leverage. With the desperate, twitchy speed of a man who knew he was outmatched in a fair fight, he vaulted the remaining steps. His boots thundered on the hollow wood of the stage as he lunged, his hand snaking out to catch the collar of Davina’s silk dress.

He yanked her backward with such force her head snapped, her small, trembling frame colliding with his chest.

"Three," I hissed.

My hand was a blur, the Beretta clearing my holster and leveling in one fluid, lethal motion. My finger took the slack out of the trigger, the front sight post settling right between Ivan’s eyes.

But the shot wasn't there. Ivan was a coward, but he was a Sokolov; he knew how to use a shield. He buried his face behind Davina’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arms with bruising force. He pinned her against him, using her height to mask his vitals.

"Drop it, De Luca!" Ivan roared. The manic edge in his voice was climbing toward a crescendo. He jammed the muzzle of his gold-plated Glock into Davina’s temple, the metal biting into her skin and forcing her head to a painful angle. "One more inch and I’ll paint this silk gown with her brains! Drop it or she dies right here!"

Davina’s eyes met mine. They were wide, glazed with a terrifying mix of shock and recognition, but she didn’t scream. Not yet. A single, crystalline tear tracked through the heavy stage makeup, and in that silent plea, I felt my soul catch fire.

"Now!" I bellowed.

It was the signal for the end of the world.

My fifteen men, hidden in the shadows of the elite, didn’t hesitate. They rose like ghosts from the audience, suppressed MP5s and pistols spitting rhythmic fire. The hold erupted. It wasn't a fight; it was an execution. Sokolov’s guards on the upper catwalks were stitched across their chests before they could even unholster their weapons.

But the "guests"—the traffickers, the politicians, the scum of the earth—became a frantic, stampeding herd. Tables were flipped, magnums of vintage champagne shattered into diamonds of glass, and the air filled with the acrid stench of cordite and high-priced terror.

"You're a dead man, Ezra!" Ivan screamed over the rising cacophony. He began to shuffle backward, dragging Davina toward the heavy velvet curtains of the rear stage exit. "You brought a knife to a war! You’re nothing without your throne!"

"I am the war, Ivan!" I stepped over a fallen chair, my eyes never leaving his.

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