The words he let out were colder than any shout. "You killed my father,"
Kyle's hand moved before anyone could blink—desperation raw in the jerky motion as he tried to aim at Miles again and pull the trigger.
But Miles was faster. He snatched Kyle's wrist mid-pull and twisted the barrel away. A single, collective scream ripped through the hall; hands flew to mouths, faces went white.
With cold, precise force Miles slammed Kyle's arm down. The gun clattered free and spun across the marble. Miles caught it with his free hand and, without breaking his stare, pressed the muzzle against Kyle's mouth until the man choked and fell silent.
A shocked gasp ripped through the room; Chester's chair scraped back as if to move but feet stayed rooted to the marble. Silence swallowed the hall—only the quick, terrified intake of breath and a single, trembling hand clutched at a handkerchief.
"I didn't mean to kill him— I'm sorry," Kyle rasped through the metal, words small and useless.
