“EMMA, TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF MY FIANCÉ!”

Vanessa took two slow, calculated steps toward the drapes, the barrel of the small handgun raised and steady.

"I know you're behind there," she said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous purr. "Julian's security has lethal clearance on this floor tonight. If you think you're walking out of here to sell a story to Page Six, you're dead wrong."

Every instinct in my body screamed to run, but there was nowhere to go. Behind me was sixty-five stories of sheer drop over Park Avenue; in front of me was a woman with a loaded firearm and a four-billion-dollar motive to pull the trigger.

She reached out with her left hand, her crimson-tipped fingers grabbing the edge of the linen drape.

She yanked it aside.

The space was empty.

Vanessa blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Before her brain could process what had happened, I dropped from the low horizontal mullion of the window frame where I had hoisted myself between the glass and the valance, driving my full body weight downward onto her shoulders.

Vanessa shrieked as we hit the floor in a tangled heap of silk and limbs.

The gun went off with a deafening *CRACK*, the bullet punching a hole through the acoustic ceiling tile above us, sending a shower of white plaster dust raining down onto the rug. The gun slipped from her grip, skittering across the polished floor toward the open doorway.

Vanessa rolled over with feral fury, her manicured nails raking across my cheek, drawing thin lines of fire. "You!" she screamed, recognizing me instantly. "You filthy little parasite!"

I didn't waste time exchanging insults. I drove my elbow hard into her solar plexus. Vanessa gasped, the air exploding from her lungs in a wet choke as she doubled over. I scrambled to my feet, scooped the nickel-plated pistol off the floor with my left hand, and secured the flash drive in my pocket.

"Don't move," I panted, leveling the gun at her chest.

Vanessa lay on the floor, clutching her ribs, her designer trench coat twisted, her immaculate hair falling into her face. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and sheer, venomous disbelief.

"You shoot me," Vanessa wheezed, "and Julian’s men will tear you apart before you hit the lobby."

"Julian’s men are going to be very busy dealing with the FBI in about three hours," I said, backing slowly toward the doorway, keeping the sight pinned to center-mass. "We have the server logs, Vanessa. We have the wire transfers to Dr. King. We have the pharmacy orders for the insulin glulisine shipped to your private penthouse under a false name."

The color drained completely from her face. The arrogance vanished, replaced by the sheer, naked terror of a criminal who realizes the trap has sprung in reverse.

"Emma, wait," she stammered, raising her hands, her voice shifting instantly into a desperate, pleading tone. "You don't understand. Julian forced me! He told me Luca was going to cut me out of the will. He said Luca was going to leave me with nothing! Julian planned the whole thing. He found King! I was just trying to protect my future—"

"Save it for the grand jury," I said coldly.

I stepped through the door, pulled the heavy mahogany suite doors shut, and jammed the steel deadbolt mechanism using the decorative brass fire poker from the decorative hearth in the reception foyer. Vanessa began pounding on the heavy wood from the inside, her muffled screams echoing down the empty hall.

I ran.

I took the fire stairs, taking the concrete steps three at a time, my heart pounding in my throat like a trip-hammer. Floor sixty, fifty-five, fifty...

"Leo, I'm out of the suite," I gasped into my lapel mic. "Vanessa was there. A shot was fired. The building alarm is going to trip any second."

"The silent alarm already tripped!" Leo’s voice roared back over the static. "Julian’s security team just locked down the main lobby! Two armed units are entering the stairwells from floor forty! You can't go down!"

"What about the service exit?"

"Blocked! Head for the third-floor delivery bay! There's an industrial freight elevator keyed to the loading dock on 56th Street—"

The heavy fire door on the landing below me flew open with a thunderous bang.

Two men in black tactical gear burst onto the concrete platform, semi-automatic pistols drawn. "There she is! Drop the weapon!"

I didn't hesitate. I fired one round into the concrete ceiling above their heads. The ricochet screamed off the steel rebar, showering them with concrete splinters. Both guards ducked, shouting in surprise.

I turned on my heel, threw open the door to floor forty-eight, and sprinted out into the dark, labyrinthine cubicles of the accounting department.

Behind me, the stairwell door slammed open again. Heavy boots pounded across the carpet.

"Fan out! Don't let her reach the elevators!"

I ducked behind a row of filing cabinets, my breath coming in ragged, burning gasps. I had four bullets left in the .380. They had body armor, tactical training, and superior numbers. I was trapped.

I heard the quiet click of a safety being released fifteen feet to my left.

"Give it up, Miss Hayes," a voice called out—the same deep, emotionless voice of the lead security guard from the engagement dinner. "Mr. Vance wants that drive. Hand it over, and maybe you walk out of here alive."

I gripped the gun, ready to step out and take my chances, when the entire floor plunged into pitch-black darkness.

The emergency exit signs flickered and died. The hum of the server racks cut out.

"What the hell?" a guard shouted. "Power's cut! Night vision, now!"

Before the guard could lower his goggles, a sound ripped through the darkness—a sickening, heavy thud, followed by the wet crunch of bone and a body collapsing heavily onto a desk, scattering papers across the floor.

"Contact! We have—"

Another blow cut the second guard off mid-sentence. A metallic clatter echoed as a tactical shotgun hit the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of a man being slammed violently into a structural concrete pillar.

Silence descended.

I held my breath, pressed flat against the filing cabinet, my gun raised into the pitch blackness.

Footsteps approached. Slow, heavy, deliberate.

"Emma."

The single word cut through the darkness like a beam of sunlight.

A hand reached out, large and warm, gently closing over the barrel of my gun and pushing it downward. Then, arms wrapped around me, pulling me against a broad, solid chest covered in heavy tactical nylon.

"Luca," I breathed, my forehead sinking into his shoulder as the adrenaline surged out of my limbs, leaving me trembling.