THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME DUST THE SHELVES WHILE HIDING A CUT ON MY PALM—THEN HIS FIANCÉE EXPLAINED THE INJURY BEFORE I EVER DID.

The screaming was instantaneous.

In the total blackness of the grand ballroom, chaos erupted like a shattered dam. Wine glasses shattered on the marble floor. Women shrieked, tripping over heavy skirts in a desperate scramble for the exits. Men shouted orders, shoving each other in the blind dark.

I gasped as a heavy shoulder slammed into my back, threatening to knock me off my heels into the stampede.

Before I could fall, a pair of powerful arms locked around my waist and hauled me violently against a hard, broad chest.

"I have you," Luca’s voice was an iron growl in my ear.

He didn't panic. His heartbeat against my cheek was fast, but steady—controlled adrenaline. With one arm wrapped tightly around me, he reached into his tuxedo jacket. A sharp, metallic *clack* echoed right beside my ear.

A gun.

"Stay down," he commanded, pulling me with him as he backed toward the heavy velvet curtains lining the eastern wall.

A second gunshot ripped through the darkness, this time closer—near the ballroom double doors. The muzzle flash illuminated the landing for a split second, casting jagged, terrifying shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

"Moretti!" a voice screamed through the dark. It was rough, accented, carrying the distinct cadence of the waterfront docks. "Romano sends his regards, you arrogant bastard!"

Another flash. A bullet pulverized a marble cherub on the column three feet above our heads, raining plaster dust down onto my hair and shoulders.

I buried my face in Luca’s neck, my hands clutching his lapels.

"Frank!" Luca roared, his voice cutting through the pandemonium like thunder. "Stage left! Suppress the balcony!"

"On it, boss!"

From the shadows across the room, two rapid, suppressed retorts spat back. A man screamed on the upper landing, followed by the heavy, sickening thud of a body tumbling down the marble stairs.

Luca moved with terrifying speed. Keeping his body between me and the open room, he kicked open an unmarked service door hidden behind the heavy drapes. He shoved me through into a narrow, concrete stairwell lit by flickering red emergency lights.

"Up or down?" I gasped, my chest heaving, the lace glove on my hand catching on the steel railing.

"Down," Luca said, grabbing my wrist. "The loading dock. The car will be waiting."

We flew down the concrete steps, the sound of gunfire above us fading into the hollow echo of the stairwell. My heels were slipping on the metal treads; without stopping, I reached down, ripped off the expensive designer shoes, and threw them aside, running barefoot on the cold, dirty concrete.

Luca glanced back at me, a flash of fierce approval in his dark eyes. "Good girl."

We burst through the heavy fire doors into the subterranean service bay of the hotel.

The air was cold, smelling of diesel exhaust, wet garbage, and damp stone. At the far end of the bay, the armored Maybach sat idling, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the concrete pillars. Frank was standing by the open rear door, a semi-automatic rifle held low against his thigh.

"Mr. Moretti! Clear!" Frank shouted.

We sprinted across the bay.

Just as my foot hit the rubber mat beside the car, tires screeched behind us.

A battered black van tore into the loading dock from the street ramp, its side sliding door already open. Two men in dark hoodies leaned out, automatic pistols raised.

"Get in!" Luca roared, shoving me violently into the backseat of the Maybach.

I tumbled across the leather seats as gunfire erupted behind me.

*Crack-crack-crack-crack!*

The heavy, bulletproof glass of the Maybach's rear window blossomed with white, spiderweb fractures as high-caliber rounds slammed into it, but the glass held. Outside, Luca dropped to one knee, using the door frame for cover, and fired four precise, rhythmic shots.

Through the starred glass, I saw the driver of the van jerk violently, his head snapping back. The van swerved out of control, crashing into a concrete support pillar with a deafening crunch of metal and hissing steam.

Luca vaulted into the backseat beside me, slamming the heavy door shut.

"Drive!" he commanded.

Frank jumped into the driver's seat, hit the gas, and the Maybach launched forward, its tires screaming against the slick concrete as it tore up the exit ramp and burst out into the rain-slicked city streets.

I sat huddled in the corner of the leather seat, trembling uncontrollably. My midnight-blue silk dress was torn at the hem, my bare feet were black with soot, and plaster dust coated my bare shoulders.

Beside me, Luca was breathing heavily. He dropped the magazine from his pistol, slammed a fresh one home with the heel of his palm, and engaged the safety with a sharp click.

Only then did he turn to look at me.

"Are you hit?" he demanded, his hands instantly reaching for me, checking my arms, my shoulders, my waist. His touch was frantic, rough, stripped of all aristocratic reserve. "Emma. Look at me. Did they hit you?"

"I... I don't think so," I stammered, my teeth chattering from shock. "No. I'm okay."

Luca let out a ragged breath. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his head dropping back against the leather headrest.

Then he looked down at his own hand.

Crimson blood was dripping from his left sleeve, pooling in the palm of his hand and staining the cuff of his white dress shirt.

My eyes widened in horror. "Luca! You're bleeding!"

"It’s a graze," he said dismissively, though his jaw was clenched against the pain. "The glass from the mirror sheared through the wool."

"Let me see it," I insisted, my fear completely eclipsed by panic for him.

Without waiting for his permission, I reached for the torn fabric of my own gown. Using my left hand and my teeth, I ripped a long, wide strip of midnight-blue silk from the hem. I leaned over him, pushing his bloody sleeve up his forearm.

The cut was jagged and deep, bleeding profusely, running right alongside the old scar he already bore.

My hands were shaking, but as I wrapped the silk tightly around his arm, tying it off with a firm knot, my focus narrowed to a laser point.

"You told me that in your house, the people bleed for you," I whispered, pulling the knot tight. "You shouldn't be bleeding for me."

Luca didn't flinch as the silk compressed the wound.

Instead, he lifted his right hand—the uninjured one—and cupped the side of my face. His palm was warm, smelling of gunpowder and rain, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone, wiping away a smear of soot.

"I didn't bleed for a maid, Emma," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, raw whisper that vibrated straight through my core. "I bled for you."

I froze, trapped in the gravitational pull of his dark eyes.

The car tore through the night, rain lashing against the reinforced windows, sirens wailing in the far distance behind us. But inside the leather sanctuary of the Maybach, the world narrowed down to just the two of us.

"Victor Romano signed his death warrant tonight," Luca said, his thumb trailing down to the corner of my lips. "There is no merger. There is no wedding. There is only what comes next."

"And what comes next?" I breathed, my lips barely moving against his skin.

Luca leaned closer, his eyes dropping to my mouth, then back to my eyes.