My Boss Was About To Be Assassinated — So I Asked Him To Dance

Part 1

Music swelled through the grand ballroom, but I could only hear the frantic ticking of my own pulse.

The venue was a masterpiece of gilded deception.

Beneath the painted ceilings and cascading crystal chandeliers, the city’s elite mingled with dangerous predators.

It was the annual charity gala, a heavily guarded neutral ground for our organization.

I stood near a towering marble pillar, a flute of vintage champagne resting loosely in my hand.

I was the forensic accountant for the syndicate.

My job was untangling the labyrinthine offshore accounts and shell companies that kept us afloat.

I carried my weight with an undeniable, unapologetic regal grace.

My custom-made emerald silk gown draped flawlessly over my broad hips and thick thighs.

The deep green fabric contrasted sharply with my pale skin and auburn hair.

The size zero socialites flitted around the room like nervous birds.

I preferred the periphery, an immovable force of calm observation.

From here, I could see absolutely everything.

My dark eyes tracked across the room, past the oblivious mayor and the laughing police commissioner.

They landed on my employer, Dan.

He was the undisputed head of the syndicate.

He possessed a cold, terrifying charisma that commanded absolute obedience from everyone in his orbit.

Tonight, he wore a bespoke charcoal tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and lethal posture.

He was standing near the towering French doors that opened out onto the terrace.

He was deep in conversation with his head of security, Greg.

Something was completely wrong.

My mind was built to recognize patterns, and this pattern was entirely off.

Greg usually hovered over Dan like an anxious hawk.

Right now, he was subtly angling his body away from his boss.

His hand kept brushing the side of his jacket, tapping a frantic, erratic rhythm against his hip.

The perimeter guards near the terrace had inexplicably thinned out.

There was a glaring thirty-foot gap in the sightline between Dan and the dark glass of the doors.

I took a sip of my champagne, my heart rate beginning to climb.

Why would Greg leave the boss exposed to the terrace windows?

I glanced at the heavy glass panes.

The night outside was pitch black, a sharp contrast to the brilliant illumination of the ballroom.

Then I saw it.

A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of light on the glass.

It was faint, swallowed instantly by the reflections of the chandeliers.

I had spent enough time poring over security footage to know exactly what it was.

A laser sight.

Someone was across the street, positioned high in the neighboring luxury apartments.

They were aiming directly into the ballroom.

I tracked the invisible trajectory from the window to the floor.

The beam was moving.

It swept past a silver champagne bucket.

It glinted off a socialite’s diamond necklace.

It began climbing the tailored pant leg of Dan.

There was no time to scream.

Shouting would cause a panic.

A sudden stampede would give the sniper the split second needed to pull the trigger before Dan could be secured.

The loyal guards were too far away.

Greg was actively looking in the opposite direction.

I slammed my champagne glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and moved.

I didn’t run, because running would draw the eye.

Instead, I glided across the polished parquet floor with aggressive purpose.

I intercepted the space between Dan and the terrace doors.

The orchestra shifted seamlessly into a sweeping, dramatic waltz.

Dan turned, his sharp, icy blue eyes narrowing in irritation as I abruptly entered his personal space.

He opened his mouth to dismiss whoever was foolish enough to interrupt him.

The words died in his throat.

I didn’t ask for permission.

I crashed into him.

My soft, substantial curves pressed firmly against the rigid, muscular wall of his chest.

My right hand clamped onto his left shoulder with a grip like a steel vice.

My left hand caught his right, forcing his arm up into a ballroom frame.

His body instantly went rigid with lethal intent.

His free hand twitched toward the concealed holster beneath his jacket.

I whispered, my voice a low, urgent hiss against his jaw.

Dance as my husband, because there is a red dot on your forehead.

Dan froze.

The sheer audacity of my action short-circuited his violent reflexes.

He was a survivor above all else.

He didn’t look toward the window.

He didn’t flinch.

His eyes simply locked onto mine, dark and calculating.

He murmured back, his voice a dangerous rumble.

Lead.

I stepped backward, pulling him with me.

I told him to keep his posture straight and move into the turn.

If we stop, you die.

We swept onto the dance floor, cutting through the sea of pastel dresses and dark suits.

My emerald skirt flared around my calves as I forcefully steered the most dangerous man in the city away from the kill zone.

I murmured that the sniper was at three o’clock, high elevation.

My lips were fixed in a polite, brilliant smile for the benefit of the onlookers.

Dan smoothly took control of the frame.

His hand rested firmly on the thick, warm curve of my waist.

He asked me who was holding the rifle, his smile equally fake.

I told him I didn’t know the shooter, but I knew who opened the door for them.

It was Greg.

Dan’s grip on my waist tightened painfully.

He demanded to know the basis of my accusation.

I told him Greg had been embezzling from our offshore accounts for six months.

I found the discrepancies three days ago.

Millions of dollars had been heavily obscured through dummy tech corporations.

He must have realized my audit was closing in.

Dan’s jaw locked as the cold venom of betrayal seeped into his chest.

He looked past my shoulder and spotted Greg standing near the north exit.

The security chief was staring at us, pale and gripping a two-way radio.

The moving target had ruined the shot.

I told Dan we were completely exposed and needed a blind spot.

He suggested the grand staircase to block the line of sight from the windows.

I warned him that if we sprinted, Greg would order his loyalists to open fire.

Dan looked at me, really looked at me, and said we would just have to dance.

The orchestra hit a sweeping crescendo.

I commanded him to dip me because the laser had just hit his back.

Dan didn’t hesitate.

He hooked his arm firmly around my waist and dipped me deeply toward the floor just as we spun.

A faint, terrible zip cut through the air.

A crystal flute on a nearby table violently shattered into sparkling dust.

They had missed, but I knew they wouldn’t miss twice.

Dan forced a much faster, aggressive tempo that dragged us rapidly toward the edge of the ballroom.

We hit the edge of the dance floor.

The massive, sweeping curve of the grand marble staircase loomed ten feet away.

Across the room, Greg raised his two-way radio to his mouth.

The silent assassination had failed.

It was time for the loud one.

We crashed behind the thick cover of the grand staircase just as the shooting started.

The heavy marble instantly cut us off from the brilliant light and the sniper’s line of sight.

Greg’s men had already cut off our escape route.

Dan grabbed my waist, shoving me behind his broad frame.

The waltz was over, and the war had just begun.

Dan fired twice, taking down the first enforcer.

We sprinted barefoot down the service corridor toward the underground sections of the hotel.

We hit the service corridor, but I knew the kitchen ahead was a dead end—and Greg’s execution squad was right behind us.