Twenty-two powerful guests watched me slap the most feared man in Chicago after he grabbed my wrist and ordered me to sit beside him. Everyone thought I had just humiliated Damian Romano in his own mansion, but two seconds later, a bullet ripped through the chair meant for me, and I realized his terrifying behavior was the only reason I was still breathing.

The false sense of security shattered at 2:14 a.m.

A piercing, high-pitched alarm shrieked through the ventilation system, echoing off the stone walls of the east wing. Red emergency strobe lights began flashing intermittently down the dark corridors.

I bolted upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Before my feet could even hit the hardwood floor, the bedroom door burst open.

Damian stood in the doorway, fully dressed in black tactical gear, a heavy automatic rifle slung across his chest. His face was carved from stone, every inch of him primed for lethal violence.

“Get up. Now,” Damian ordered, striding across the room in three long strides.

“What’s happening?” I gasped, scrambling out of bed as he grabbed a Kevlar vest from the wardrobe and thrust it into my arms.

“The perimeter has been breached,” Damian said grimly, helping me secure the heavy straps over my shoulders. “A professional hit squad. They bypassed the outer gates using Victor’s administrative terminal. Victor sold us out.”

My breath caught. “Victor?”

“He tried to cover his tracks, but Gabriel caught him transferring funds from a Swiss offshore account five minutes ago,” Damian growled, gripping my arm and pulling me toward the reinforced panic room hidden behind a bookshelf in the study. “They’re inside the house, Harper. And they’re heading straight for this wing.”

Before we could reach the secret door, a deafening explosion rocked the opposite end of the hallway. The heavy mahogany double doors of the study blew inward in a cloud of splintered wood, smoke, and fire.

Three heavily armed mercenaries clad in black tactical gear poured through the wreckage, automatic weapons raised and sweeping the room.

“Get down!” Damian yelled, shoving me hard behind a massive oak filing cabinet just as a hail of gunfire chewed through the air above us.

Wood chips and plaster exploded everywhere. Glass from the bookshelves rained down like deadly confetti.

Adrenaline surged through my veins with the force of a tidal wave. I couldn't just hide—not while Damian was out in the open returning fire with lethal, military-grade precision. Peering around the edge of the filing cabinet, I saw one of the mercenaries flanking Damian's left side, raising his rifle for a fatal shot while Damian was engaged with the other two.

Without thinking, I grabbed a heavy, bronze paperweight off the desk beside me and hurled it with every ounce of strength I possessed.

It struck the mercenary squarely in the side of his helmet. The man staggered, his aim ruined just enough for Damian to pivot, raise his sidearm, and neutralize the threat with a single, deafening shot.