THE MAFIA BOSS IN THE WHEELCHAIR WAS HUMILIATED IN FRONT OF 300 GUESTS—THEN HIS CONTRACT WIFE LEARNED WHO PUT HIM THERE

Rain poured in torrents over Manhattan, drumming against the roof of the armored SUV as we pulled up to the abandoned warehouse in SoHo—the very building where my design firm had once thrived.

Dominic sat in the back with me, flanked by Gabriel and eight heavily armed security operatives.

"Stay in the vehicle with Gabriel," Dominic instructed, checking his earpiece.

"No," I insisted, grabbing his arm. "Marcus called me. If Roland sees Gabriel's tactical team first, he'll start shooting immediately. Let me walk in. Gabriel can cover me from the shadows."

Dominic looked at me, his jaw clenching. "If you take one step out of line—"

"I won't."

I put on a dark raincoat, stepped out into the pouring rain, and pushed open the rusting metal doors of the warehouse.

Inside, water dripped from the high ceilings into plastic trash cans, creating an eerie, echoing rhythm. The smell of rust and damp concrete filled the air.

"Marcus?" I called out, my voice echoing through the vast, dark space.

"Claire..."

A figure stumbled out from behind a stack of wooden crates. Marcus Wynn looked horrific. His clothes were torn, his face bruised and bloody. He clutched a small black hard drive to his chest.

"Claire, you came," Marcus sobbed, taking a step toward me. "I'm so sorry. I swear I never knew Roland was going to try to kill your husband! I was just trying to pay off my gambling debts!"

"Where is Roland, Marcus?" I asked coldly, keeping my distance.

"Right behind you, my dear."

From the upper catwalks, floodlights suddenly roared to life, blinding me.

Roland Pike stepped out onto the iron balcony above, holding a suppressed assault rifle. Surrounding us on the upper walkways were at least a dozen armed mercenaries.

"A touching reunion," Roland mocked, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Did you really think I'd let you walk away with my empire, Claire? You and your cripple husband have ruined everything I built!"

"It's over, Roland!" I shouted, looking up into the blinding lights. "The feds have your bank accounts! The police are surrounding this district!"

"Then I have nothing left to lose," Roland snarled. "Kill her."

Before the mercenaries could raise their weapons, the heavy warehouse doors exploded inward with a deafening crash.

A custom tactical van rammed through the entrance, smashing into the support pillars. Smoke grenades were launched into the air, instantly filling the warehouse with thick, white fog.

Gunfire erupted.

"Get down!" a voice roared.

Hands pulled me behind a concrete pillar. I looked up—it was Dominic. He was sitting in his armored wheelchair, firing his handgun with terrifying accuracy through the smoke, dropping two mercenaries coming down the stairs.

"Gabriel, clear the catwalks!" Dominic ordered over the comms.

Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark warehouse like lightning. Shouts, groans, and the metallic clatter of shell casings falling on concrete filled the room.

Marcus screamed, dropping to the floor and crawling toward the exit. But Roland, seeing his plan fall apart, fired frantically from the upper balcony.

A bullet struck Marcus in the back. He collapsed with a choked gasp, motionless.

"Claire, stay down!" Dominic yelled, maneuvering his chair behind a heavy steel girder as bullets sparked against the metal frame.

Roland sprinted down the iron staircase, his rifle raised, aiming directly at me as I crouched behind the pillar.

"You destroyed me!" Roland screamed, his face twisted in madness.

He squeezed the trigger.

Time slowed down.

Dominic saw Roland aiming at me. With a roar of primal fury, Dominic didn't try to steer his wheelchair.

He stood up.

Driven by pure adrenaline and love, Dominic threw himself out of the chair, lunging across the concrete floor, knocking me to the ground just as a hail of bullets ripped through the air where my head had been a second before.

Pain shot through Dominic as he landed heavily on top of me, protecting my body with his own. A bullet grazed his shoulder, blood soaking through his dark suit jacket.

"Dominic!" I screamed, clutching his face. "You're hit!"

"I'm fine," he gritted out, his teeth bared in pain.

Roland stood over us, his rifle raised, a maniacal grin on his face. "Looks like you can stand after all, Dom. Too bad you're going to die on your feet!"

BANG!

A single gunshot echoed through the warehouse.

Roland’s eyes went wide. The rifle slipped from his hands. He looked down at the bleeding hole in his chest, then up at Dominic, who was holding a small, concealed pistol he had pulled from his ankle holster.

"I told you," Dominic whispered coldly, his voice steady as iron. "A real man doesn't lose."

Roland collapsed backward into the puddle of rain and oil on the concrete floor, dead.

Silence fell over the warehouse, broken only by the sound of pouring rain and the heavy gasps of breathing. Gabriel and the tactical team moved through the room, securing the area and confirming all threats were eliminated.

I held Dominic in my arms, tears streaming down my face as I pressed my hands against his bleeding shoulder.

"You stood," I sobbed, laughing through my tears. "You saved me."