Chapter 1: The Five-Hundred-Dollar Kiss “Five hundred dollars. One kiss. That's all you have to do.”

"Nico!" I screamed, dropping the gun and catching him as his knees finally gave out.

We sank together to the cold cellar floor. Blood—dark, hot, and terrifyingly abundant—was soaking rapidly through his black shirt, staining my hands and my emerald dress.

"I'm fine," he grunted, clenching his teeth, though his face was rapidly losing color. "It's... just a scratch, *tesoro*."

"Stop lying!" I sobbed, tearing a long strip of silk from the hem of my gown and pressing it violently against the wound on his left side. "Press down! Marco! Someone help!"

Nico’s large hand came up, weak and shaking, cupping the side of my face. His silver eyes were dimming, but the adoration in them was blinding. "You shot him for me..." he whispered, a faint, breathless laugh escaping his lips. "You saved my life... just like your mother."

"You don't get to die, Nico Moretti," I ordered him through blinding tears, leaning down until our foreheads pressed together, our blood mingling on the cold stone. "Do you hear me? You promised to protect me. You can't break that promise!"

The heavy cellar doors slammed open with a metallic crash.

Marco rushed in, followed by a dozen heavily armed Moretti enforcers, smoke rising from their weapons. "Boss! We cleared the courtyard! Salvatore’s men surrendered—"

Marco stopped dead in his tracks, horror flashing across his hardened face as he saw Nico on the floor. "Boss!"

"Get the medic!" I screamed at Marco, my voice raw and commanding. "Get the car now! He's losing too much blood!"

Marco didn't question me. For the first time, he looked at me not as a waitress from the lounge, but as the woman standing at the helm of the Moretti dynasty. "Yes, ma'am! Lift him up! Gently! Move, you idiots!"

The soldiers rushed forward, carefully lifting Nico onto a tactical stretcher. As they carried him toward the exit, his limp fingers slipped from mine, leaving streaks of red across my trembling palms.

I stood up, drenched in blood, my dress torn, holding the empty revolver in my hand.

I looked down at Victor’s dead body, then back toward the smoke-filled corridor where Salvatore had fled. The terrified waitress who had run from debt was dead. She had died in the dust of this cellar.