She Tripped Into The Mafia Boss's Lap In Front Of Everyone, But When She Tried To Flee, He Locked His Fingers Around Her Wrist And Whispered: ""You’re Not Leaving Alive Without Me."

Before the hidden gunman could fire, Roman reacted with inhuman speed. He tackled Clara behind a thick brick archway just as a hail of buckshot shredded the wooden wine casks, spraying aged vintage and wood splinters across the cellar floor.

Roman didn't hesitate. Leaning around the corner for a fraction of a second, he fired three deafening shots into the darkness. A heavy body collapsed with a wet thud against the stones.

""Victor's running!"" Clara cried out, catching a glimpse of a shadow darting down the tunnel toward the harbor outlet.

""He won't make it far,"" Roman growled. He checked his magazine—four rounds left. He grabbed Clara’s hand, his grip tight, unyielding, and fierce. ""Stay on my heels. If I tell you to drop, you drop.""

They sprinted through the damp catacombs, the sound of the ocean growing louder with every step. The subterranean air turned salty and bitter, carrying the rumble of crashing waves. At the end of the passage, a rusted iron gate stood wide open, revealing a hidden concrete slipway leading out to the dark, churning waters of the industrial harbor.

Rain was pouring now, falling in sheets from a pitch-black sky. Across the water, illuminated by the harsh yellow floodlights of the old industrial shipping yard, lay Pier 42.

A large rusty barge was tethered to the end of the dock. Standing beneath a corrugated tin awning were half a dozen heavily armed men in dark raincoats. Tied to a metal chair in the center of the platform was a slight, drenched figure with a burlap sack over his head.

""Leo!"" Clara gasped, recognizing the blue university jacket her brother wore. She tried to surge forward onto the pier, but Roman’s arm wrapped around her waist like an iron band, hauling her back into the shadow of the seawall.

""Wait,"" Roman ordered fiercely against her ear. ""Look at the crane towers.""

Clara squinted through the driving rain. On the catwalks of the towering cargo cranes, red laser dots were cutting through the mist. They weren't Roman’s men. Salvatore Marcone had ambushed the ambush; the vantage points were fully occupied by the enemy.

Suddenly, a voice boomed over a loudspeaker from the barge, amplified and mocking.

""Roman Duca! Come out of the shadows, boy! You've kept an old friend waiting long enough!""

An elderly man with slicked-back silver hair and an impeccably tailored cashmere coat stepped into the yellow light on the barge. Beside him stood Victor, holding a towel to his bleeding arm. Salvatore Marcone had returned to the city.

""He's here for me, Clara,"" Roman said, his breathing steady despite the impossible odds. He pulled his spare handgun from his ankle holster and pressed it into her hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. ""Take this.""

""What are you doing?"" she asked, her eyes wide with terror. ""Roman, they have snipers! They'll shoot you before you take five steps!""

""They want to gloat first,"" Roman whispered, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. ""Salvatore's ego won't let him kill me without giving a speech. That gives you three minutes.""

""Three minutes for what?""

""To slip under the dock pilings,"" Roman said, pointing toward the low wooden scaffolding beneath the pier floor. ""The tide is low. You can crawl beneath the planks directly under the barge. There’s an emergency mooring ladder at the stern. When the shooting starts, you get your brother into the water.""

""And what about you?"" Clara’s voice cracked, tears mixing with the rain streaming down her face. She reached out, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. ""You'll die up there!""

Roman looked down at her hands clutching his chest. A strange, serene softness softened the brutal lines of his face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her temple, warm and fierce against the icy storm.