By the time Stella Marlowe reached the glowing red sign above L’Aurora, she had stopped thinking about whether she was afraid.

Saturday morning arrived with cold, biting winds blowing in off the Atlantic.

The tribunal of the city’s syndicate leaders was called for 8:00 PM at The Sovereign Hotel—a neutral, highly secured establishment managed by Matteo Russo in the heart of the financial district.

At 6:30 PM, Jonah’s three-vehicle convoy pulled out of the Chestnut Ridge gates. Jonah and Stella sat in the rear of the middle armored sedan, while Lucas rode in the lead car with four heavily armed security guards.

Stella wore a stunning emerald-green dress Mrs. Gable had selected for her—a gown that showed her graceful neck and slender waist while completely covering her healing ribs. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon, and for the first time in years, she wore no makeup to cover bruises, because there were none left to hide.

Beside her, Jonah looked imposing in a tailored black tuxedo, his dark hair swept back neatly, his posture radiating quiet, immense power.

“Nervous?” he asked softly, taking her hand in the dark interior of the car.

“A little,” Stella admitted. “I’ve never seen the Elders before.”

“They’re just old men who care about money,” Jonah replied smoothly. “And tonight, we hold all the cards.”

Suddenly, the lead vehicle slammed on its brakes, its tires shrieking against the wet asphalt of the mountain highway.

Before Jonah’s driver could react, a heavy dump truck pulled out from a side road, completely blocking both lanes of traffic ahead.

“Ambush!” the driver shouted, pulling a handgun from his shoulder holster.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Automatic gunfire erupted from the treeline bordering the highway. Bullets pinged against the heavy armored glass of Jonah’s sedan, cracking the outer layer of reinforced glass but failing to penetrate.

“Stay down!” Jonah commanded, shoving Stella onto the floorboards and covering her body with his own.

In the lead car, Lucas Hale and his security team kicked their doors open, returning fire into the treeline with disciplined, deadly precision.

Through the crack in the driver’s side door, Stella saw three men in dark tactical gear advancing on their vehicle, carrying heavy shotguns. These were not Dean’s usual street thugs—these were mercenaries hired from the Vane Syndicate, a rival outfit from out of state.

“Dean used his last cash reserves to hire outside hitmen,” Jonah growled softly, pulling a sleek silver pistol from beneath his tuxedo jacket.

One of the attackers reached their car, smashing the butt of a shotgun against the driver’s side window until the reinforced glass shattered inward. The driver slumped over the steering wheel, wounded.

The mercenary reached through the broken window to unlock the door.

Jonah didn't hesitate. He leaned across the front seat and fired twice through the broken glass. The mercenary fell backward onto the road.

However, a second shooter opened the rear passenger door, leveling a handgun directly at Stella’s head.

“Gotcha, little bird!” the man yelled.

Jonah lunged across the leather seat, throwing his left arm over Stella’s chest while using his right to knock the gun upward.

BANG!

The gunshot exploded inside the enclosed vehicle. Stella screamed as a sharp line of white-hot agony grazed Jonah’s left shoulder, tearing through his tuxedo jacket and sending blood splattering across his white dress shirt.

Jonah didn't even groan. He grabbed the attacker by his tactical vest, dragged him halfway into the car, and smashed his heavy silver pistol down against the man’s temple, knocking him instantly unconscious.

Outside, the gunfire rapidly died down as Lucas Hale and his men swept the treeline, neutralizing the remaining hitmen with ruthless efficiency.

Lucas yanked open Jonah’s door, his face pale with adrenaline. “Boss! Are you hit?!”

Jonah sat back, his breathing heavy, his left sleeve rapidly turning crimson. “I’m fine. Check Stella.”

Stella scrambled up from the floorboards, her heart in her throat as she saw the dark blood soaking Jonah’s shirt.

“Jonah!” she gasped, her hands flying to his wound. “You’re bleeding!”

“It’s a graze,” Jonah rasped, offering her a faint, reassuring smile despite the pain. “Just a flesh wound.”

Stella didn't listen to his bravado. Drawing on her instincts, she immediately tore a long strip of fabric from the hem of her silk green gown and pressed it firmly against his shoulder wound, applying steady, practiced pressure.

“Hold this,” she commanded, her voice ringing with an authority that made even Lucas pause in surprise. “Keep pressure on it until we get to the hotel.”

Jonah looked at her—at her fierce, focused brown eyes, her total lack of panic, and the skilled way her slender hands held his wound closed. A low, soft laugh escaped his lips.

“You’re amazing, Stella Marlowe,” Jonah murmured softly.