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.

"Get down!"

Dominic moved with impossible speed. His massive frame collided with mine, tackling me off the sofa and driving us both behind the heavy cast-iron radiator beneath the window just as the glass exploded inward.

The deafening *crack-crack-crack* of suppressed automatic gunfire shredded the plaster where my head had been resting seconds earlier. Flakes of drywall and shards of shattered glass showered over us like lethal snow. I screamed, the sound trapped in my throat, my hands instinctively gripping Dominic's lapels.

He didn't panic. His heart beat against my cheek with a steady, rhythmic fury. He pulled a matte-black firearm from beneath his coat, his body completely shielding mine from the street-facing window.

"Marco!" Dominic spoke calmly into a wrist mic, completely unaffected by the chaos. "Suppressor fire from the roof across the street. Elevated position, four o'clock. Clear the alley and bring the primary vehicle to the curb."

Outside, heavy return fire erupted. The deeper, thunderous roar of Dominic's security team echoed through the narrow alleyway, followed by the squeal of burning tires.

"Chloe, look at me," Dominic commanded.

I forced my eyes open. His face was inches from mine. His eyes weren't frantic; they were calculating, cold, and lethal.

"Can you run?" he asked.

"My... my mother's letters," I stammered, pointing a shaking finger toward the dresser. "The only pictures I have left of her—"

Dominic glanced at the dresser, then back at me. Without waiting, he surged upward, snatched the antique wooden box from the bureau drawer despite two more rounds punching through the mirror above it, and tucked it securely under his left arm. He grabbed my wrist with his right hand, his grip like forged iron.

"Move!"

He kicked open the rear service door that led into the tenement's fire stairwell. We plunged into the darkness, the sound of boots pounding up the metal steps beneath us.

"Down or up?" I gasped, my lungs burning.

"Neither. The roof is compromised, and the lobby is a fatal funnel," Dominic muttered. He shoved me through the third-floor landing door, kicked open the lock of an abandoned tenant unit, and headed straight for the rusted fire escape overlooking the side courtyard.

Below, one of the black Escalades reversed into the narrow gap at forty miles an hour, demolishing the wooden gate. Marco kicked open the rear door from inside, assault rifle raised to the rooftops, providing cover fire.

"Jump to the second platform, then slide down," Dominic ordered.

"I can't—it's fifteen feet!"

Dominic didn't argue. He wrapped one arm around my waist and leaped over the railing. We hit the rusted lower grating with a metallic boom, dropped through the counterweighted ladder, and hit the pavement running.

Bullets pinged off the reinforced steel armor of the SUV like hail. Dominic shoved me into the leather backseat, dove in right behind me, and slammed the heavy door shut.

"Drive!" Marco roared from the front passenger seat.

The Escalade lurched forward, throwing me against Dominic’s chest. The driver gunned the engine, smashing through an idling sedan that had attempted to block the alleyway exit. Metal tore against metal with a sickening screech, but the three-ton armored vehicle didn't slow down. We burst onto Commercial Street, blending into the rain-slicked midnight traffic of Boston.

I sat shivering in the corner of the leather seat, my hands trembling uncontrollably. My apartment—my entire life, every scrap of safety I’d ever known—was gone in ninety seconds.

Dominic laid the wooden box containing my mother's photographs gently onto my lap.

"I'm sorry about your home," he said quietly, his voice low and devoid of pity. "But I told you: to them, you are no longer a bystander. You are an obstacle."

"Who are they?" I whispered, tears finally slipping down my cheeks.