I Told You To Run But You Didn't (Georgia) novel Chapter 4

Georgia’s POV

The silence in the restaurant was crazy, broken only by the whimpers of the pathetic man on the floor.

Every eye was on us, a triangle of idiots: the would-be killer, the bored executioner, and me.

Estevan Salvatore didn’t look at the man he’d disarmed. He didn’t look at the terrified audience hiding behind their tables. He looked only at me, his gaze sweeping from the steady muzzle of my pistol to my face.

“Do you know this man?” he asked, his voice a low, calm rumble that cut through the tension he had created.

“No,” I clipped out. The word felt sharp in the dead air.

A slow, deliberate blink. “Then why,” he murmured, taking a half-step closer, completely ignoring the gun aimed at his chest, “are you stopping me?”

I could feel the collective gasp of the room. I saw Lucas, my coward of a husband, peering from behind a chair, his face pale with shock.

They all thought I was playing the hero, a foolish girl standing up to a monster to save some worthless thug. How pathetically simple their world was. This wasn’t about heroism. It was about control.

“Let’s be clear,” I said, my voice as cold and steady as my hand. “I’m not stopping you from defending yourself. You’ve already done that.” My eyes darted to the whimpering gunman, then back to his. “I’m stopping you from committing a very public, very messy murder.”

A dark chuckle escaped his lips. It wasn't a sound of humor; it was the sound of a predator finding a new, interesting toy. “You think I’m concerned about witnesses?”

“I think you’re intelligent enough to know that a room full of them is an inconvenience,” I retorted. “And I’m the only inconvenience in this room currently pointing a gun at you. So, I’d say my opinion matters.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes dark and analytical, searching for a hint of a bluff. He wouldn’t find one.

We weren't a hero and a villain. We were two people who understood violence, and he had just discovered I spoke his language.

Before he could respond, the wail of approaching sirens cut through the air. A moment later, two uniformed officers stormed through the restaurant doors, weapons drawn. “Police! Drop your weapon! Now!”

Estevan didn't even flinch, but a smirk touched his lips as if the cavalry had ruined his fun. This was my cue. Acting on pure muscle memory, I didn’t drop my gun—that’s how accidents happen.

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