2At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston's most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

Before the words had completely left Dominic's lips, the world exploded into violence.

A deafening *crack* shattered the rain-streaked window behind me. Glass cascaded across the room like silver shrapnel.

In a fraction of a second, before I could even scream, Dominic moved with terrifying, predatory speed. His arm hooked around my waist, lifting me completely off the cot, and he threw his entire body over mine as we crashed hard against the linoleum floor behind the rusted cast-iron stove.

A high-velocity bullet punched through the thin drywall right where my head had been resting two seconds earlier, sending a shower of plaster dust across my back.

"Down! Stay flat!" Dominic commanded in my ear, his voice deadly calm, devoid of panic.

His weight was heavy and solid against me, shielding every inch of my body. The scent of rain, expensive cedarwood cologne, and cold steel surrounded me.

A second shot tore through the window, obliterating my mother's chipped porcelain coffee mug into dust.

"Marco!" Dominic barked into his lapel microphone.

"Multiple shooters on the fire escape opposite, Boss!" Marco’s voice crackled through the comms, punctuated by the muffled *thud-thud-thud* of suppressed gunfire echoing from the street below. "Two suppression teams moving up the internal stairwell! We’re engaging!"

Through the ceiling and floorboards, the muffled pops of automatic weapons vibrated through the building. Screams from neighboring tenants pierced the night.

"How many?" Dominic asked, his free hand drawing a sleek, customized matte-black semi-automatic from his shoulder holster.

"At least eight. These aren't local street muscle, Mr. Romano. They’re moving like a tactical unit—body armor, full military kit!"

Dominic shifted his weight, his eyes sweeping the apartment. "We take the service elevator down the rear chute. Move the center Escalade into the alley mouth now."

He looked down at me. Plaster dust coated my hair; my eyes were wide with blind terror, my chest hyperventilating against his chest.

"Chloe. Look at me," he commanded softly.

I forced my eyes to meet his.

"I promised you that you wouldn't die for saving my life. I intend to keep that promise. But you need to listen to my voice and do exactly what I tell you. Can you do that?"

I nodded frantically, my teeth chattering. "Y-yes."

"Is there anything in this room you cannot live without? You have ten seconds."

My eyes darted across the floor toward the small wooden nightstand by the broken window. Sitting beside the lamp was a small, worn wooden music box carved with wild roses—the only thing my mother had left me before she died.

"The box," I gasped, pointing a shaking finger. "On the table. My mother's box."

Another bullet ripped through the wall above the counter.

Dominic didn't hesitate. Keeping his center of gravity low, he lunged across the open space, grabbed the rosewood music box with his left hand, and rolled back behind the stove in one seamless, terrifyingly fluid motion. He shoved the box into the deep pocket of my coat and zipped it shut.

"Hold on to me," he said.

Suddenly, the apartment door was kicked off its hinges with a thunderous splintering crash.

A masked man in tactical gear and night-vision goggles stepped into the doorway, raising a suppressed submachine gun.

Dominic didn't flinch. Raising his weapon with one hand from behind the stove, he fired three shots in rapid succession—*crack, crack, crack.*

The intruder collapsed backward into the corridor like a puppet with its strings cut, blood painting the hallway wall.

Dominic grabbed my hand, hauled me to my feet, and propelled me toward the narrow service door behind the kitchen alcove. "Move!"

We burst into the narrow, dark rear stairwell just as Marco appeared from the shadows below, his weapon drawn and smoking. Behind him, two of Dominic's suited security operators were clearing the landing, their faces grim and professional.

"The alley is hot, Boss," Marco warned, blood dripping from a shallow cut on his cheekbone. "They dropped smoke grenades at the entrance."

"Blow through it," Dominic said coldly. "Chloe stays in the center. If anyone takes a shot, you take the bullet for her. Am I understood?"

"Understood, Boss."

We descended the concrete stairs at a dead run. The smell of burning rubber, cordite, and rain grew thicker with every floor. When we reached the basement level, Marco kicked open the heavy metal emergency exit that led into the narrow alleyway behind my building.

The alley was a warzone of flashing red and blue lights, choking gray smoke, and the violent strobes of muzzle flashes. Two black town cars had pinned our middle SUV, but Dominic's outer perimeter guards had already neutralized the shooters. Three masked bodies lay motionless on the wet asphalt.

"Into the truck! Now!" Dominic roared over the sound of a roaring V8 engine.

Marco shoved me through the reinforced door of the armored Escalade. Dominic piled in directly behind me, slamming the door shut with the heavy, vault-like thud of reinforced ballistic steel.

*Clang-clang-clang!*

Rounds struck the bulletproof glass of the rear window, creating spiderweb fractures that held firm against the impact.

"Drive," Dominic ordered the driver through the partition.

The driver slammed the vehicle into reverse, obliterating the front bumper of a blocking sedan, swung the wheel violently, and launched the massive SUV out onto the main boulevard. The tires shrieked against the wet pavement as the vehicle surged forward, leaving my burning neighborhood behind.

I collapsed against the leather seat, clutching the pocket containing my mother's music box with both hands. My knuckles were bone-white. I turned and looked out the reinforced rear window.

Through the rain and smoke, I saw the third floor of my apartment building. A bright orange fireball billowed out of my broken window, licking the rain-soaked brick.

Everything I owned was gone. My clothes, my memories, my quiet, anonymous life—incinerated in an instant.

I was twenty-six years old, covered in plaster dust and someone else's blood, hurtling through the streets of Boston in an armored fortress with the city's most dangerous crime lord.

Beside me, Dominic Romano calmly reloaded his weapon, slid it back into its leather holster, and straightened his silk tie. Then, he looked at me, his slate eyes dark with an emotion I couldn't decipher.

"You're alive, Chloe," he said quietly.

"They burned my home," I whispered, tears finally escaping down my cheeks. "They burned everything."