THE MAFIA BOSS’S BRIDE-TO-BE ORDERED ME TO HIDE HIS SEVENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD FORMER BUTLER IN THE SCULLERY—BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HIM TO THE BANQUET TABLE, DAMIAN BLACKWOOD STOOD UP AND SAID, “MR. HARRINGTON? I SEARCHED FOR YOUR GRAVE FOR A DECADE.”

Before Dominic Thorne could squeeze the trigger of his assault rifle, a sharp, deafening blast shattered the darkness from the rear of the convoy. Marcus had managed to crawl out from the burning lead vehicle, unholstered a grenade launcher from the emergency rack, and fired an incendiary shell directly into the engine compartment of Dominic’s lead Suburban.

The SUV detonated in a towering fireball, the concussive shockwave throwing Dominic’s vanguard into chaos and illuminating the mountain pass in harsh, flickering amber light.

“NOW!” Damian shouted.

Damian charged forward into the smoke, firing with lethal, pinpoint accuracy. Two of Dominic’s mercenaries were cut down before they could recover their footing, while Marcus and our surviving rear guards opened up a devastating crossfire from behind the rock embankment.

Inside our Maybach, Harrington turned toward me, reloading his shotgun with steady, deliberate movements. “Miss Maya, the driver will reverse the vehicle to clear the debris. You must remain inside!”

“No!” I shouted, seeing through the fractured side window that Dominic Thorne had recovered from the blast and was flanking Damian through the dense treeline with a heavy combat blade and a sidearm. “Damian is exposed on his left!”

I grabbed the heavy door handle, shoved the door open against the howling wind and rain, and scrambled out onto the wet asphalt. The smell of burning rubber, gasoline, and gunpowder filled my lungs, but my vision was laser-focused on the tree line.

Dominic charged out of the brush like an enraged grizzly, tackling Damian from behind and sending both men crashing onto the muddy shoulder of the highway. Damian’s firearm was knocked from his grip, sliding across the wet road toward the edge of the steep ravine.

Dominic pinned Damian against a granite boulder, his massive hand wrapping around Damian’s throat while his other hand drove his heavy combat blade down toward Damian’s chest.

“My brother was weak!” Dominic roared through the roar of the rain, spit flying from his lips. “He wanted to play games with council elders and forged papers! I take what is mine with steel and blood! When you’re dead, I’ll take that girl and throw her down this mountain just like we did her mother!”

Damian struggled fiercely, catching Dominic’s wrist inches from his heart, his muscles straining against the immense downward pressure of the blade. The rain poured over their locked bodies, blood mixing with mud on the rocky ground.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

I sprinted across the slick roadway, scooped up Damian’s fallen firearm from the asphalt, leveled the heavy weapon with both hands, and disengaged the safety with a sharp click.

“DOMINIC!” I screamed.

The massive mercenary froze, turning his head toward me. A mocking, arrogant sneer twisted his scarred face as he saw a twenty-four-year-old woman standing ten feet away in the pouring rain, holding a gun that seemed too large for her hands.

“What are you going to do, little maid?” Dominic laughed, keeping his knife pressed against Damian’s chest. “You going to dust me? You don't have the stomach to pull that trigger.”

“You killed my mother,” I said, my voice completely devoid of tremor, colder than the winter rain pouring over my head. “And you’re touching my husband.”

I pulled the trigger.

*BANG!*

The heavy hollow-point round struck Dominic squarely in his right shoulder, severing the muscle and forcing him to drop the combat blade with a roar of agony.

Damian capitalized instantly on the opening. He surged upward, driving his elbow into Dominic’s jaw, sweeping his legs out from under him, and slamming the massive mercenary down onto his back in the mud.

Before Dominic could roll over to reach for his secondary sidearm, Thomas Harrington stepped up to the edge of the boulder, planting the cold steel twin barrels of his 12-gauge shotgun directly against Dominic’s forehead.

“Don't move a single muscle, Mr. Thorne,” Harrington said politely, the rain streaming off the brim of his tailored wool cap. “At my age, my trigger finger tends to suffer from occasional arthritis spasms.”

Dominic froze, staring up at the gaping barrels of the shotgun in sheer, paralyzed terror. His mercenary forces, seeing their commander neutralized and their vehicles burning, threw down their weapons and raised their hands as Marcus and the Blackwood guards rounded them up at gunpoint.

Damian rose from the mud, wiping blood from his split lip. He didn't look at Dominic. He didn't look at the burning wreckage.

He walked straight toward me through the rain, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with an emotion so fierce and overwhelming it took my breath away.

He reached out, took the smoking firearm gently from my trembling fingers, and pulled me into his arms with crushing force. His wet coat pressed against mine, his heartbeat pounding wildly against my chest as he buried his face in my hair.

“You shot him,” Damian whispered, his voice trembling with awe and disbelief. “You saved my life, Maya.”

“I told you,” I whispered against his neck, wrapping my arms tightly around his broad shoulders. “We protect this house together.”

Behind us, Marcus approached, securing zip-ties around Dominic’s wrists. “Boss! Dominic’s personal encrypted satellite phone is ringing. It’s an incoming call from an unlisted terminal in Manhattan.”

Damian released me reluctantly, turned around, and took the satellite phone from Marcus’s hand. He pressed the speaker button.

A frantic, terrified voice spilled through the speaker—a voice we recognized instantly.

“Dominic?!” Seraphina cried out, sobbing hysterically from an undisclosed location. “Did you kill them?! The council guards had an accident while transferring me—I managed to slip away! I’m at the private penthouse on 57th Street! You have to extract me! Did you get the will?!”

Damian brought the phone to his lips, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that froze the air through the line.

“Dominic is currently resting in the mud, Seraphina.”

A choked, horrified gasp echoed across the call. “D-Damian...?”