Three bullets tore into my body because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old heir to New York’s most feared billionaire mafia family

"Dominic, I have to give it to him," I whispered urgently, leaning close into his shoulder as Lucian stepped away toward the terrace doors. "It's the only way to guarantee Caleb's safety."

"The moment you give him that cipher, he has zero reason to keep Caleb alive," Dominic hissed, his jaw clenching so hard I could hear his teeth grind. "Men like Lucian don't leave loose ends. You give him the keys to that empire, and we all die tonight."

"Then what's the plan?"

Dominic reached into his tuxedo jacket, subtly adjusting a tiny transmitter pinned behind his lapel. "The plan is violence."

He tapped the transmitter three times.

*Click. Click. Click.*

Suddenly, the massive crystal chandeliers above the ballroom shattered in a deafening, synchronized explosion of sparks.

Total darkness plunged the St. Regis penthouse.

Screams erupted instantly. Wine glasses shattered, women shrieked, and hundreds of panicked high-society guests stampeded toward the main exits in blind terror.

"Nolan, execute!" Dominic roared into his comms.

Green night-vision flares sparked to life across the balconies as Dominic's tactical teams breached the glass terrace doors.

Gunfire ripped through the dark—sharp, deafening cracks of suppressed automatic fire.

"Elena, behind me!" Dominic barked, drawing two concealed handguns from beneath his jacket with terrifying speed, firing three double-taps into the shadows where Lucian's guards had been stationed.

I didn't cower. I reached down, ripped the silk slit of my emerald gown all the way to the hip, and drew the ceramic blade strapped to my thigh.

A shadow lunged at Dominic from his blind spot—one of Lucian's mercenary enforcers brandishing a suppressed submachine gun.

Before the shooter could squeeze the trigger, I threw my weight forward, driving the ceramic blade deep beneath his collarbone into the brachial artery. The man choked on a spray of crimson and collapsed to the marble floor, dropping his weapon.

I scooped up the submachine gun in one fluid motion, rolling behind a marble pillar just as a hail of bullets chipped the stone inches above my head.

Dominic glanced at me through the strobe of emergency red lights, his eyes widening in savage admiration. "Remind me never to make you angry."

"Save your compliments for later!" I yelled over the chaos. "The roof! Lucian is heading for the rooftop!"

"Cover the rear!" Dominic ordered, moving toward the private service stairs like a force of nature. He was an unstoppable machine—every shot he fired found a target, dropping Lucian's mercenaries with brutal, clinical efficiency.

We fought our way up the concrete stairwell, the air thick with the smell of cordite, blood, and ozone. Every step sent a jolt of fire through my healing shoulder, but the adrenaline surging through my veins completely drowned out the pain. Caleb was at the top of these stairs. Nothing else mattered.

We kicked through the heavy roof door, bursting out into the freezing night air.

The rooftop of the St. Regis was lashed by driving rain, the city skyline glowing faintly through the low-hanging storm clouds.

There, on the edge of the helipad, stood Lucian Vance.

And in front of him, held firmly by the collar of his little jacket over the sheer four-hundred-foot drop into the Manhattan streets below, was Caleb.