At 9:17 P.M., a wealthy customer punched me so hard I lost consciousness on the checkered floor of a New York diner.

The storm hit Brooklyn at midnight with biblical force.

Thunder shook the heavy foundations of the brownstone, rattling the ballistic glass in the frames. Outside, the streetlights flickered and died as a transformer blew two blocks away on Court Street, plunging Amity Street into total, suffocating darkness.

Then came the roar of an engine.

Through the darkness, the twin beams of high-powered headlights tore down the narrow street. The Mercedes didn't slow down for the curb. It slammed directly through the wrought-iron front gates of the brownstone, tearing the metal hinges from the brownstone pillars with an apocalyptic crash of tearing steel.

*“Amelia!”*

A voice shrieked through the rain outside—raw, manic, completely unhinged.

*"Come out, you little bitch! You ruined my life! You think a mobster can save you? Come out!"*

A hail of gunfire shattered the front double doors.

Splinters of antique mahogany exploded into the hallway. Vincent shoved me behind the reinforced steel door of the library just as rounds tore through the plaster, leaving jagged, smoking holes along the foyer walls.

"Stay down!" Vincent commanded.

Marco and two bodyguards returned fire from behind the marble entryway pillars, their suppressed weapons spitting dull, rhythmic thuds. Outside, Derek was firing wildly with a military-style semi-automatic rifle, screaming obscenities into the deluge.

"He's not alone," Marco yelled over the gunfire. "He brought two private security mercs his old man had on retainer!"

A concussive blast blew through the front window—a flash grenade meant to disorient. White light blinded the entryway, followed by the deafening sound of boot heels kicking through the splintered threshold.

"Amelia!"

Derek's voice was inside the house now. He sounded completely deranged, fueled by cocaine, ruin, and the humiliation of his ruined privilege.

I crouched behind the massive oak desk in the library, my hands over my ears. Every instinct screamed at me to curl into a ball, to disappear, to let the men fight it out.

*No.*

I looked around the library. On the mantlepiece stood a heavy, brass decorative horse head—solid, weighing at least fifteen pounds. Beside it sat Vincent's silver letter opener.

I didn't run three years ago to die under a desk in a dark room.

A gunshot echoed just outside the library door, followed by a wet grunt and the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. One of Vincent's guards groaned and went still.

The library door handle rattled.

The lock held, but Derek fired three rounds directly through the center of the wood, blowing the brass deadbolt apart. The door kicked open.

Derek Lawson stumbled into the library, drenched in rainwater and mud. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody cast, but his left hand held a Glock 19, his eyes wide and bloodshot, pupils dilated to the rim.

"There you are," he panted, his breath hitching as he leveled the barrel directly at my forehead. "You stupid, insignificant little cunt. You took everything from me. My career, my father, my freedom. Over a fucking punch?"

I stood up from behind the desk. My hands weren't shaking anymore.

"You took it from yourself, Derek," I said, my voice steady, clear, cutting through the thunder outside. "You thought you were a god because your daddy wore a robe. But you're just a cowardly little boy who hits women because he can't look men in the eye."

His face twisted with homicidal rage. "Say goodbye, Amelia."

He pulled the hammer back.

A shadow materialized behind him from the dark terrace doors.

Vincent didn't shout. He didn't issue a warning.

He closed the distance in two strides, his left arm locking around Derek's throat like an iron band, wrenching the younger man backward with explosive force. The gunshot went wide, blowing a chunk out of the ceiling plaster.

Derek shrieked, flailing frantically, swinging the pistol backward. The barrel caught Vincent across the cheek, opening a deep gash, but Vincent didn't even grunt.

With a brutal, sweeping kick, Vincent took Derek's legs out from under him, driving him face-first into the hardwood floor. Derek's gun skittered across the floorboards, stopping inches from my boots.

Vincent planted his heavy knee into the center of Derek's spine, pinning him flat. His hands reached down, grabbing Derek’s broken, cast-covered right hand, twisting it behind his back until the younger man screamed in agony, tears and drool smearing across the floor.

"You broke the rule once," Vincent growled into his ear, blood dripping from his own cut cheek down onto Derek’s neck. "You came into my sanctuary twice. There is no third time."

Vincent reached for his Colt on the floor.

"Vincent, wait!" I cried out.

Vincent froze, the gun hovering an inch from the back of Derek's head. He looked up at me through the shadows, his slate eyes wild with ancient, lethal fury.

"If you execute him here, they take you away," I said, stepping forward until I was standing right beside them. "Arthur Lawson's allies will call it self-defense for Derek. They'll say you ambushed him. They'll bury you in an federal penitentiary, and Sophia's name will be dragged into another scandal."

Vincent's chest heaved. The vein in his temple throbbed against the skin.

"Look at him, Vincent," I said softly, looking down at Derek Lawson sobbing into the wood, completely broken, drenched in his own filth and terror. "He isn't worth your freedom. He isn't worth your mother's memory. Let the world see what he truly is."

Slowly, agonizingly, the iron tension in Vincent's shoulders unlocked.

He didn't fire. He brought the heavy butt of the pistol down once, cleanly, against Derek’s temple, knocking him into unconsciousness.

Outside, the distant wail of fifty police sirens ripped through the storm, approaching from every corner of Brooklyn.

Vincent stood up slowly, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked at the shattered door, the ruined foyer, and then at me.

"You saved my life," he murmured.