Georgia fisted her hands, digging her nails into her palms. She was preparing to land a karate kick in his groin when Savannah entered the living room from the kitchen. She’d taken off her heels, but she was still practically naked. Her face was ashen, and her eyes had a glazed sheen. She was clutching a large butcher knife, but she was trembling. She walked toward the patio door.
“Zoya is dead.”
Vlad moved Georgia in front of him as a shield. His voice was unsteady. “Good job, Vanna, my love. She was bitch. Give me knife. You right. We together now.”
Savannah didn’t move.
He thrust his pistol hard into Georgia’s temple. “Okay. Then watch. I shoot sister.”
Before Savannah could reply, Georgia bent forward, drew her foot up, and smashed it into Vlad’s groin. He staggered back. His pistol fired and fell just beyond the pool of light. Georgia checked herself. No wound. The shot had gone wild. She shouted to her sister. “Grab the gun, Savannah!”
But Vanna was still brandishing the knife. She closed the distance between herself and Vlad and tried to thrust the knife in his chest. He twisted away at the last minute, and it only nicked his arm. He lurched forward and snatched the knife from her.
Panic streaked through Georgia. “The gun!” Georgia tried to motion with her chin. “Over there. Shoot him. There are bullets in the chamber.” But as she said it, she realized Savannah didn’t know what that meant.
Savannah spun around and headed toward the gun. She was fast, but so was Vlad. Brandishing the knife, he reached the spot where the gun had fallen at the same time as Savannah. Savannah fell on top of the gun, but Vlad threw himself on top of her and tried to plunge the knife in her back.
Georgia screamed. “Stop! Kill me instead!”
Suddenly a series of shots rocked the air, sending a stream of sharp, deafening retorts across the yard. Vlad let out a groan. The knife fell from his hand. A pool of blood seeped out beneath Savannah, staining the snow pink. His? Or Savannah’s?
Georgia spun around. One of Boris’s men stood at the edge of the yard in deep shadow. She couldn’t see him clearly, but she could see his assault rifle still aimed at Savannah and Vlad.
She let out a breath.
The man lowered his weapon, dipped his head as if to acknowledge a debt paid, then melted into the darkness.
Georgia hurried over. Neither Vlad nor Savannah moved. She approached with caution. The wounds on Vlad’s body—she could see three or four—bled freely. The Russian mob guy was some shot. But what about her sister?
“Savannah. Are you okay? Say something. I need to know that you’re alive.”
There was no answer.
“Savannah?” Georgia was desperate. “Please. Answer me, baby. Are you okay?”
This time she heard a whimper. “Get him off me,” Savannah said. “I can’t breathe.”