Later, inside the ladies’ powder room, the lock clicked behind Amelia.
She turned.
Two women stood between her and the door, both from Camila’s orbit, both smiling the way people smiled when they expected to hurt someone weaker. One held a box cutter. The other rolled one between manicured fingers like a toy.
“Camila sends her regards,” the blonde said.
Amelia’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The bathroom was all marble and gold and polished mirrors, a palace built for vanity, but in that moment it felt like a sealed tomb.
The first woman lunged.
Amelia ducked on instinct. The blade sliced empty air where her throat had been. Her hand landed on a heavy crystal soap dispenser. She grabbed it and swung. Glass exploded against the brunette’s shoulder. A scream bounced off the mirrors. The blonde came again, slashing downward, and Amelia threw up her arm. Pain burned hot across her forearm as steel grazed flesh.
Then came the door.
Not opening. Exploding.
Rocco hit first with his gun drawn, but Langston was already moving past him. He crossed the room in two strides, caught the attacker’s wrist, and twisted until bone gave with a sickening crack. The woman shrieked and dropped the cutter.
Langston did not look at her. He dropped to Amelia’s side so fast it felt impossible this was the same man who moved with such lethal calm in public. His hands hovered over her wound, then pressed his pocket square hard against it.
“Look at me,” he said.
Amelia was shaking too hard to speak.
“You fought,” he said, and there was something almost fierce in the pride beneath his rage.
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