At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston’s most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

The hotel descended into chaos as alarms blared.

Lorenzo had triggered the building’s fire suppression systems, blinding the security cameras and scattering the guests into a panicked stampede toward the exits.

"Marco, get Chloe to the primary armored vehicle via the kitchen loading dock," Dominic commanded, his voice slicing through the blaring sirens. "Take three units. Do not stop for anything."

"Dominic, no!" I grabbed his arm, refusing to let go. "Don't go after him alone!"

He paused, looking down at me through the flickering emergency strobe lights. For a fraction of a second, the mafia boss vanished, leaving only the man who had sat on my broken sofa and drank instant coffee from a chipped mug.

"He targeted you, Chloe," Dominic said softly, his thumb sweeping over my cheek. "In my world, someone who threatens the woman under my protection does not get to see the sunrise. I finish this tonight so you can wake up tomorrow without looking over your shoulder."

He leaned down and kissed me—a fierce, bruising, passionate kiss that stole the air from my lungs. It was a promise, a claim, and a vow all at once.

"Go with Marco. I'll be right behind you."

Before I could answer, Marco pulled me through the service doors into the service stairwell.

We burst out into the underground loading dock. Rain was pouring down in sheets, misting across the concrete. Two of Dominic’s black Escalades sat idling, their headlights cutting through the gloom.

Suddenly, an engine roared from the access ramp.

A heavy commercial delivery truck barreled down the concrete incline, smashing directly into the lead SUV with an ear-splitting crunch. The armored vehicle flipped onto its side, sparks showering across the pavement.

Gunfire erupted instantly.

"Ambush!" Marco yelled, shoving me behind a concrete support pillar as high-caliber rounds chipped chunks of stone inches from our heads. "Down! Stay down!"

From behind the delivery truck, Lorenzo Romano emerged, flanked by five heavily armed mercenaries wearing tactical vests. Lorenzo held an assault rifle, his face twisted in desperate, unhinged madness.

"Where is he, Marco?!" Lorenzo screamed over the gunfire. "Tell my dear cousin to show his face before I paint this garage with your little waitress's brains!"

Marco returned fire, dropping one of the shooters, but a round caught him in the shoulder. He grunted, stumbling back against the pillar, his weapon clattering to the floor.

"Marco!" I cried, kneeling beside him, pressing my hands against the bleeding wound.

"Chloe... take the side door," Marco gasped, teeth gritted in agony. "The stairs lead to the wharf... run!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

Footsteps echoed on the concrete. Lorenzo stepped around the pillar, his rifle leveled directly at my forehead.