Luca Moretti knew something was wrong before he even opened the door.

The sound of shattering glass tore through the second-floor corridor of the Greenwich estate.

Emma had been sitting near the library window, ice pack resting against her bruised arm, when the first gunshot cracked.

She didn't freeze. Growing up with an older brother who had run cross-border logistics for blue-collar syndicates had taught her one thing: when gunfire starts, you don't look out the window. You drop.

She hit the hardwood floor instantly, rolling behind the heavy mahogany desk just as a spray of automatic rounds pulverized the bay window, showering the Persian rug in glittering shards of tempered glass.

Downstairs, the estate’s security alarm began its deafening, rhythmic wail.

“Clear the stairs! Target is on the second level!” a rough voice shouted in accented English from the main foyer.

Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. There were two armed guards posted outside her door, but she had heard the telltale thuds of silenced handguns three seconds before the glass broke. They were already dead.

She glanced around the desk. In the bottom right drawer, Luca kept a backup service weapon—a standard Glock 19. She had seen him clean it two weeks ago while she was polishing the brass fixtures.

She yanked the drawer open. The gun was there, black and heavy, with a full magazine beside it.

Emma slapped the magazine into the grip, racked the slide back until a round chambered with a mechanical snap, and tucked herself into the corner behind the door.

Heavy combat boots pounded up the stairs.

“Search the master suite!” a voice barked. “Vance wants the girl alive if possible. If not, take her phone and burn the room!”

*Declan Vance.*

The confirmation chilled her blood. Bianca hadn't just tried to frame her; Vance’s people were here to clean up the loose ends before Luca’s evidence could reach the federal district attorney.

The door handle jiggled. The wood groaned under the weight of a heavy kick, and the door burst inward.

A man in a tactical vest, balaclava covering his face, swept his rifle into the room.

Emma didn't hesitate. She stepped out from the blind spot behind the door, raised the Glock with both hands, and pulled the trigger twice.

The shots were deafening in the enclosed space. The man collapsed forward, his rifle clattering across the floorboards.

Before Emma could breathe, a second man lunged through the doorway, his forearm catching her across the chest and slamming her against the wall. The breath exploded from her lungs. Her gun flew from her grip, skidding out of reach.

The man grabbed her by the throat, pinning her against the wallpaper, his dark eyes gleaning behind his mask. “Got you, you little—”

A bullet tore through the man’s temple.

Blood sprayed across the wall. The attacker went completely limp, his dead weight collapsing to the floor.

Standing in the doorway, smoke rising from the barrel of a custom Kimber .45, was Luca Moretti.

His suit jacket was gone. His white dress shirt was streaked with soot and rain, his eyes ablaze with a terrifying, primal fury. Behind him, Mateo and three enforcers were already securing the hallway, weapons raised, stepping over fallen intruders.

Luca dropped his gun to his side and crossed the room in two strides. He caught Emma by the shoulders, pulling her away from the wall, his hands frantically scanning her arms, her neck, her face.

“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice thick with ragged adrenaline. “Emma. Look at me. Are you hit?”

“I’m—I’m okay,” she choked out, her hands trembling as she grabbed his forearms for balance. “Luca, I’m okay. I shot the first one.”

Luca glanced down at the dead man on the floor, then back at Emma. A flash of profound respect crossed his features, followed immediately by an unbearable possessiveness. He pulled her hard against his chest, wrapping his arms around her until she could feel the thunderous beating of his heart against her cheek.

“You’re safe,” he whispered fiercely into her hair. “You’re safe now.”

Emma buried her face in the crook of his neck, letting out a shaky breath. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the terrifying reality of her survival hit her. She didn't pull away. She held onto his shirt like an anchor in a hurricane.

Mateo appeared in the doorway, his expression grim. “Local police dispatch just received an anonymous tip about shots fired. We have less than eight minutes before Greenwich PD rolls up the driveway.”

Luca didn't let go of Emma. He kept one arm firmly around her waist, shielding her from the sight of the bodies as he turned toward the door.

“Burn the house,” Luca said cold.

Mateo blinked. “Boss?”

“They know this estate is compromised. Vance has the blueprints,” Luca stated, his voice completely level, completely detached from mercy. “Take the servers. Clear the armory. Burn the west wing to make it look like an internal gas explosion. We move to the Catskills retreat immediately.”