The bathwater was hot enough to burn Maxwell Rourke’s skin, yet the paralyzed crime boss sat there without so much as a flinch.

By 8:00 PM, the grand ballroom on the first floor of Rourke House was filled with diamond-draped socialites, corrupt city councilmen, shipping magnates, and union bosses. Below, the orchestra played Vivaldi, champagne flowed like water, and Julian Rourke stood near the grand staircase, basking in the glow of stolen power.

Upstairs on the third floor, the lights suddenly cut out.

*Click. Hummmmm.*

The backup generator kicked on with a low, rumbling vibration, plunging the hallway into dim, amber emergency light.

"He knows," I whispered, peering through the crack of the suite door.

Two of Julian's heavies—dock thugs in ill-fitting suits carrying suppressed automatic pistols—were creeping up the grand stairs. They had realized Vance hadn't returned. Julian wasn't waiting for the toast. He was clearing the board early.

"Martha, step behind me," Maxwell ordered.

He was dressed in a tailored black tuxedo. He sat in his wheelchair near the center of the dark room, his hands resting casually on the armrests. To anyone stepping through the door, he looked like the same helpless invalid he had been for fourteen months.

The bedroom door was kicked open.

The first thug swept the room with his barrel, spotting Maxwell instantly. "Target secured. Clean hit, just like Julian said."

The man stepped forward to raise his weapon.

Maxwell didn't duck.

He kicked the small brass side table with his right boot. The heavy marble top flipped through the air, smashing directly into the gunman’s kneecap.

The thug howled, collapsing forward. Before the second guard could react, Maxwell surged out of the wheelchair with explosive fury. He closed the four-foot distance in a single, devastating stride, grabbing the second guard's gun arm and twisting it until the forearm snapped with a sickening *pop*.

Maxwell drove his elbow into the man’s temple, dropping him cold onto the rug.

The first gunman scrambled for his dropped gun on the floor.

I didn't think. The adrenaline from three years of suppressed rage exploded through my veins. I grabbed the heavy bronze bust of Athena from the nightstand and brought it down with both hands onto the back of the gunman’s head.

*THUD.*

The man went limp.

The room fell dead silent.

Maxwell stood among the fallen men, his tuxedo pristine, his breathing deep and steady. He looked down at the unconscious hitman at my feet, then looked up at me holding the heavy bronze statue.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Remind me never to make you angry, Martha."

"Julian is waiting at the foot of the stairs," I whispered, setting the bust down, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He thinks his men are sending you down in a body bag."

Maxwell picked up one of the dropped handguns, checked the magazine with a crisp, practiced snap, and flicked off the safety.