“No One Can Dance This Waltz!” the Mafia Boss Laughed—Then the Waitress Stepped Onto the Floor

The plunge into pitch-black darkness was followed instantly by the deafening crack of a high-caliber rifle shattering the ballroom’s skylight.

Glass rained down like daggers.

Screams tore through the hall. Tables overturned; silver trays crashed to the marble. The scent of cordite exploded into the conditioned air as multiple muzzle flashes lit up the mezzanine.

“Down!” Vincent roared.

He didn't hesitate. He tackled Karina to the floor, rolling his massive body over hers, using his own broad back as an armored shield against the raining glass and ricocheting bullets.

*Pop-pop-pop-pop!*

Automatic gunfire swept across the front tables where Don Antonio had been standing. Levi’s voice cut through the chaos from twenty feet away, cold and operational: “Vince! South exit! It’s Finch! He brought fifty mercs through the service tunnels!”

Vincent rose to a low crouch, hauling Karina up with him. He had already drawn a matte-black SIG Sauer from beneath his tuxedo jacket.

“Levi! Suppress the balcony!” Vincent barked, firing three rapid shots into the muzzle flashes on the mezzanine. A body tumbled over the gilded railing, crashing into a champagne pyramid below.

“Karina, stay behind me!” Vincent ordered, his left arm locked around her waist as he moved toward the service corridors behind the orchestra stand.

The emerald gown was ruined, shredded at the hem by broken glass, but Karina didn't flinch. Her survival instincts, honed by years of living on the knife-edge of poverty, took over. She gathered the heavy silk in one hand, ducking low as another burst of fire chewed through the plaster above their heads.

They reached the heavy steel doors leading to the kitchen corridor.

Vincent kicked the crash bar open. “Move! The subterranean garage is two levels down—”

The door swung fully open, and a figure stepped out of the steam-filled hallway.

It was Donovan Finch.

The loan shark wore a wet trench coat, his gaunt, rat-like face split into a disgusting grin. Behind him stood four men with shotguns. In his hand was a short-barreled revolver.

“Evening, Vince,” Finch sneered. “Nice footwork out there. Really touching.”

Vincent raised his weapon, but one of Finch’s men fired a shotgun blast that tore into the doorframe an inch from Vincent’s skull, showering them with splinters. Vincent shoved Karina violently backward behind the reinforced steel jamb.

“Finch, you dead man!” Vincent snarled, firing around the corner until his slide locked back.

*Click.*

Before Vincent could clear the empty magazine, Finch’s men charged the doorway. Two heavy bodies slammed into Vincent, driving him backward into the corridor. Vincent fought like a cornered lion, smashing his pistol into one man’s nose and crushing the windpipe of the second with a brutal palm strike.

But there were too many.

A third man swung a heavy pipe, catching Vincent across the temple.

Vincent stumbled, his vision blurring with crimson. He fell to one knee, the world spinning in sickening circles.

“Vincent!” Karina screamed.

Finch stepped past the groaning bodies, his revolver leveled at Vincent’s forehead. “You should have stayed in your lane, Graham. Moretti paid me ten million to clear the board tonight. And taking your little pet is just the cherry on top.”

Finch reached out, his greasy hand clamping around Karina’s wrist, yanking her violently away from the doorway.

“Let go of her!” Vincent choked out, his vision swimming, his fingers clawing desperately across the bloody floor toward his dropped gun.

Karina didn't wait to be rescued.

With the blinding speed of a dancer whose legs could generate eight hundred pounds of torque, she drove the three-inch steel stiletto heel of her satin dancing shoe straight through the instep of Finch’s leather boot.

Bone crunched.

Finch shrieked in agony, dropping the revolver as he hopped backward, his hands clutching his foot.

Karina didn't run. She dropped low, scooped up the fallen revolver with both hands, and brought it level with Finch’s face.

The remaining mercenary raised his shotgun toward her.

*Crack!*

A bullet ripped through the mercenary’s throat from behind. Levi Garrison appeared in the doorway, his wire-rimmed glasses spattered with blood, his service weapon smoking.

“Karina! Step back!” Levi shouted.

Finch, sobbing in agony and terror, scrambled backward through the kitchen double doors, dragging his shattered foot behind him, disappearing into the maze of the hotel’s service tunnels.

Levi reached Vincent, hauling the massive boss to his feet. Vincent was pale, blood pouring from the gash at his temple, but his eyes were wide, fixed on Karina.

She stood there in the flickering emergency lights, the emerald dress torn, the heavy revolver held steady in her small, trembling hands, her chest heaving.

Vincent stumbled toward her. He reached out with shaking, blood-stained fingers, grabbing the cylinder of the gun and gently lowering her arms.

“Are you hit?” he rasped, his voice raw with terror. “Karina. Look at me. Are you hit?”

She looked down at her bloody hands, then up into his frantic eyes. “No. It’s not my blood.”

Vincent let out a broken, shuddering breath and pulled her into his chest with such violence it knocked the air from her lungs. He held her as if she were the only solid thing remaining in a collapsing universe.

“Levi,” Vincent whispered over her shoulder, his voice returning to that freezing, absolute register of total eradication.

“Yeah, Vince?” Levi said, reloading his clip.

“Get the cars. Call every soldier we have from the river to the state line.”

Vincent pulled back just enough to look Karina in the eyes, his bloody thumb wiping away a smudge of soot from her cheek.