Behind a locked mahogany door, the most feared man in the city woke with a gun in his hand and found me asleep on his chest. Men had disappeared for speaking to Victor Hayes the wrong way, yet somehow I had spent the night using him as a pillow—and when he realized who I was, everything changed.

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a shimmering court of glass, gold, and blood-money.

Orchestral music drifted over two hundred guests—politicians in sleek tuxedos, heiresses dripping in pearls, and syndicate bosses wearing expensive suits over bulletproof vests.

When Victor Hayes walked through the grand archway with my hand resting securely over his forearm, the room fell into a sudden, suffocating hush.

Whispers erupted like a flock of startled birds.

"Is that Hayes?" "I thought Moretti’s men got him at the docks!" "Who is that girl on his arm?" "She looks like royalty... where did he find her?"

Victor ignored them all, walking through the crowd like a king entering his throne room. His posture was commanding, his grip on my hand warm and steady.

Suddenly, the crowd parted, and a tall, silver-haired man in a dark grey suit stepped forward, holding a glass of champagne. He had sharp, rat-like eyes and a cruel, thin smile.

Marco Moretti.

"Victor!" Moretti exclaimed, his fake smile failing to hide the absolute shock in his eyes. "We heard rumors you were unwell! A sudden chest cold, they said."

"Rumors in this city are cheap, Marco," Victor replied coolly, his voice carrying clearly over the quieted crowd. "Just like the men you hire to do your dirty work."

Moretti’s smile twitched. His rat-like eyes shifted from Victor to me, scanning my face with cold, condescending malice.

"And who is this delicate flower?" Moretti sneered, taking a step closer. "I don't recall seeing her at the shipping auctions. Is she a new acquisition, Victor? A gift from one of your bankrupt debtors?"

I felt a hot flare of anger shoot through my chest. Four days ago, I would have cowered. I would have looked at the floor and prayed not to be hit.

Instead, I stood tall, my chin lifted, my eyes locking onto Moretti with cool, unyielding disgust.

"My name is Maya Vance, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice clear, elegant, and resonant. "And I suggest you keep your tone respectful while speaking to Mr. Hayes. The air down here seems a bit too refined for rat poison."

Gasps echoed through the nearby crowd.

Victor’s hand tightened around mine, a deep, silent rumble of pure pride vibrating through his chest.

Moretti went red, his eyes flashing with lethal fury. "You arrogant little bitch—"

"Choose your next word very carefully, Marco," Victor interrupted, his tone dropping into a icy register that made every guard in the room reach for their waistbands. "Because if it offends her, I will tear your waterfront contracts apart before midnight, and feed what's left of your syndicate to the harbor fish."

Moretti swallowed hard, recognizing the absolute, immediate threat of war in Victor's eyes. He took a slow step back, raised his champagne glass in a fake toast, and backed away into the crowd.

"That was dangerous," I whispered to Victor, my heart pounding against my ribs.

"That was perfect," Victor growled softly, leaning down to kiss the side of my neck right over my pulse point, making my knees go weak. "You were perfect."

Before we could take another step, the heavy crystal chandeliers above the ballroom suddenly flickered, hissed, and plunged the entire room into total, pitch-black darkness.

Screams erupted through the ballroom.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Heavy automatic gunfire shattered the glass doors at the rear of the hall. Panic exploded as two hundred elite guests scrambled for the exits, knocking over tables, smashing glasses, and shrieking in terror.

"PULL UP!" Victor roared.

In a fraction of a second, Victor’s arm slammed around my waist. He yanked me down behind a thick marble pillar, using his own broad body as a human shield to cover me completely.

Through the darkness, muzzle flashes illuminated four masked gunmen clad in tactical gear, advancing into the ballroom, their weapons spraying bullets indiscriminately into the ceiling and toward the VIP tables.

"Moretti," Victor growled against my ear, drawing a compact black pistol from his tuxedo holster with lightning speed. "He realized he lost the political battle, so he's trying to purge the room."

"Victor!" I gasped, clutching his lapels. "You're still recovering!"

"Stay under this ledge," Victor commanded, his eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying fire. "Do not move until I come back for you."

"No! Don't leave me!"

Victor grabbed my face in both hands, pressing his lips to mine in a rough, passionate, fierce kiss that tasted of thunder and copper.