The gunshot punched through his stomach.
Knight staggered back, staring as hot blood poured down his shirt. His eyes snapped upward toward the source of the shot—through the window—and he realized instantly this wasn't going to be the only one.
He dove sideways.
A bullet tore through the wall where his head had been, splintering wood and sending chunks of plaster clattering to the floor.
The shooter was relentless.
Knight darted to the far side of the room, boots pounding against the floor as another shot cracked behind him. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of death slicing past, chewing through walls, glass, and air.
Blood spilled fast from the hole in his stomach, soaking his shirt, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. His free hand clamped over the wound, but every movement sent fresh agony ripping through him.
Whoever they were, they weren't here to scare him. They were here to finish him.
Knight made the decision in a breath—he had to get out. Now.
He lunged toward the door, shoulder slamming against it. The hinges shrieked as it gave way.
Another gunshot.
The bullet caught his shoulder, spinning him slightly. The aim had been for his head—missed by inches.
Pain seared white-hot, but Knight didn't slow. He stumbled into the hall, heart hammering. Takeshi's men were scattered across the floor, unconscious, their weapons gone.
No way he could take the main exit—every one would be covered.
He veered toward the far wall, vaulted through a shattered window, and dropped two stories to the street below. The landing sent a jolt of fire through his wounds, but he crouched low and kept moving.
Alley to alley. Wall to wall.
He cleared a fence and vaulted into someone's backyard, vision swimming, the world tilting with every step.
The shooter was still out there. He could feel it—the steady, patient pursuit.
Another fence. He gripped the top, hauled himself up—
A bullet slammed into the wood beside his hand, splintering it, missing by less than a breath.
Knight dropped down fast, boots hitting grass. Laundry swayed in the night air—women's dresses, skirts, sheets. A cover. He needed to blend in, disappear.
He reached for a dress, ignoring the sting in his stomach and shoulder—
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked right behind his ear.
A woman's voice, calm but deadly:
"Back away from my clothes. Hands in the air."
Knight froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
Camilla.
Her eyes widened. The gun in her hand wavered slightly.
"…Kieran Blackwood?"
He managed a smirk—half pain, half disbelief.
Then his knees buckled.
The world tilted.
Knight hit the ground, unconscious.
"Shit," she cursed, tossing the gun aside. She dropped to her knees beside him. Her eyes flicked to the blood soaking his stomach and shoulder, her face tightening.
Her eyes went wide.
"Fuck, don't die on my property," she snapped, panic cutting through her voice.
She stood quickly, yanking a piece of clothing off the laundry line—only to pause when she realized it was one of her favorites.
"Dammit, you're going to reimburse me, Kieran Blackwood," she muttered, pressing the fabric hard against his stomach to slow the bleeding. She didn't exactly know what else to do, she could barely deal with a paper cut, let alone this.
Her mind raced. An ambulance, that was the obvious move. She dug her phone out of her pocket, thumb hovering over the keypad.
But then she froze.
"What the hell am I supposed to tell them?" she muttered. "They'd call the cops… ask questions about who shot him…"
Her gaze flicked down to him. Even half-conscious, he radiated danger. She already knew Kieran Blackwood wasn't just a billionaire CEO, this right here proved it. And there was no way in hell he'd want the cops sniffing around.
"So no cops," she murmured, but the logical part of her brain wasn't done.
What are you doing, Camilla? This could be your big break.
She could practically hear her editor's voice, if she handed Kieran over to the police, they'd dig into him. She'd be the reporter who exposed whatever he was hiding. Judy Garland would know she was more than capable.
Her thumb hovered over the phone screen. She looked at Knig, this breathing was shallow, too slow and felt the decision settle in her chest.
She made the call.
***
Knight's eyes fluttered open. The bright overhead lights stabbed at him, forcing them shut again. Slowly, muffled voices began to sharpen into focus.
"Thank you for calling us and not… anyone else," Damon's voice.
"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure I get reimbursed for my shirt," Camilla said flatly.
"Of course."
From across the room, Leonardo's gaze lingered on her. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, and when she caught him staring, a faint blush colored her cheeks. She looked away….straight to the bed.
Knight was awake. And staring.
Her eyes widened. "He's awake!"
Before anyone could say more, the door burst open and a dozen of his men stormed in. Camilla backed up fast, slipping out before she could be trampled.
"Woah," she muttered, watching them swarm around the bed like a shield.
Damon leaned forward. "How are you feeling now, boss?"
Knight's gaze swept over the room, sharp, assessing.
Then his voice cut through the noise, cold and certain.
"Get me my wife."