The champagne glass hit me before I understood someone had thrown it.

Panic erupted instantly. Screams bounced off the vaulted ceiling as socialites trampled over chairs, tables, and each other in a desperate bid for the exits.

The sound of suppressed gunfire—*thwip, thwip, thwip*—cut through the chaos.

In the first millisecond of blackness, Damian’s hand clamped around my wrist like a vice, yanking me down behind an overturned marble buffet table before the first hail of bullets chewed through the plaster walls above our heads.

“Stay down!” Damian ordered over the roar of terror.

Emergency backup lights flickered on—not the bright chandeliers, but dull, sickly yellow hazard lamps that cast long, grotesque shadows across the blood-spattered floor.

Two men in black tactical gear and Kevlar vests strode through the shattered glass of the terrace doors, carrying automatic weapons. Behind them, retreating toward the kitchen service entrance, was Julian Vance, guided by a hulking, scarred man with a shaved head.

“Gallo,” Damian hissed under his breath.

“Damian!” Marco appeared from the gloom, sliding on his knees behind our barricade, a Glock in each hand, blood dripping from a graze on his temple. “The main exits are jammed. Gallo’s team cut the power grid for the whole block. They’re executing a scorched-earth retreat.”

“Get Emma out through the service elevator,” Damian commanded without looking at me. “Take three men. Do not stop until she is behind the gates at Lake Forest.”

“No!” I grabbed Damian’s lapel, my fingers digging into the wool. “I’m not leaving you!”

Damian turned to me, his face illuminated by the flickering yellow light. His eyes were wide, burning with an unbearable mix of ferocity and terror.

“Emma, listen to me,” he said, framing my face with both hands, his thumbs pressing against my cheekbones. “If they kill me, Luca has no one. You are the only person in this world I trust with my son. You have to live. Do you understand me? You have to protect him.”

Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I saw the absolute conviction in his gaze. He wasn't just fighting for his empire anymore; he was fighting to keep his family alive.

“Come back to us,” I choked out.

Damian leaned in and kissed me—hard, fierce, and desperate. His lips were hot against mine, tasting of adrenaline, scotch, and an unspoken promise.

“Always,” he whispered against my mouth.

He released me, rose in one explosive motion, and fired three precise shots over the marble barrier. One of the tactical gunners collapsed with a wet thud.

“Go, Marco! Move!”

Marco grabbed my arm, pulling me low as we scurried through the darkness toward the service corridor. Behind us, the ballroom erupted into a deafening war zone of gunfire and shouting.

We burst into the service hallway. Two of Damian’s security men fell in ahead of us, weapons raised. We sprinted past industrial dishwashers, stainless steel counters, and discarded trays of hors d'oeuvres.

Suddenly, the steel fire door at the end of the hall blasted open.

A man stepped out into the light, holding a heavy shotgun.

It was Sal Gallo.

Before Marco could raise his weapon, Gallo fired. The blast caught the lead guard in the chest, hurling him backward into a metal rack of wine glasses that shattered with a horrific, familiar roar.

Marco returned fire, driving Gallo back behind the concrete pillar, but a second shotgun blast ripped through the drywall, catching Marco in the shoulder. He grunted, dropping to one knee, his weapon skittering across the slick tile floor.

I was exposed. Completely defenseless in an emerald silk dress.

Gallo stepped out from behind the pillar, grinning through crooked, yellow teeth, blood splattered across his cheek. He lowered the smoking barrel toward Marco’s head, then his eyes flicked to me.

“Well, look at that,” Gallo sneered, his voice raspy like grinding stones. “The little hero girl. Vance said you’d look pretty in a coffin.”

He swung the heavy barrel toward my chest.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I had no weapon. No armor.

Then my eyes caught the edge of a heavy cast-iron stockpot sitting on the industrial range beside me, filled with boiling water and steaming oil from the evening’s banquet prep.

I didn’t hesitate.

Channeling every ounce of terror and fury inside me, I grabbed the steel handles with both hands, ignoring the blistering heat searing into my palms, and heaved the boiling liquid straight into Gallo’s face.

Gallo let out an ungodly, skin-crawling shriek as the scalding water hit his eyes and chest. He dropped the shotgun, clawing frantically at his blistering skin.

“Marco! The gun!” I screamed, dropping the heavy pot with a clatter.

Marco lunged forward, sweeping his Glock from the tile, and fired two rounds directly into Gallo’s chest.

The giant collapsed like a felled redwood, hitting the concrete floor and moving no more.

Silence descended upon the narrow corridor, broken only by my ragged, shuddering breaths and Marco’s heavy groans as he clutched his bleeding shoulder.

My hands were red, blistering from the boiling water, and my gown was smeared with soot and water. But I was alive.

Footsteps pounded down the corridor behind us.

I spun around, bracing for another attacker, but it was Damian.

His tuxedo jacket was torn, his knuckles bloody, his weapon lowered. When his eyes swept over the dead enforcer, the steaming pot, and then locked onto me standing amidst the wreckage, the iron control he had maintained for years finally shattered.

He dropped his gun. He crossed the corridor in three massive strides, pulled me into his arms, and crushed me against his chest with an intensity that knocked the wind right out of me.

“I have you,” Damian breathed into my hair, his entire body trembling against mine. “I have you. You’re safe.”