Six hours before anyone expected me home, I walked into my Long Island mansion with a loaded gun under my coat, another man’s blood drying on my cuff, and the kind of reputation that made armed men look at the floor when I entered a room.

"You always were bad at math, Victor," I said quietly.

Before he could react, I swept his leg out from under him, slamming his face into the wet cobblestones, and brought the heavy butt of my pistol down behind his ear. Victor went limp instantly.

I grabbed his coat, dragging his unconscious three-hundred-pound body behind the heavy oak double doors of the side garage just as the two armored sedans skidded to a halt in the center courtyard.

Car doors slammed open. Six men stepped out into the rain, wearing black raincoats and carrying submachine guns.

"Victor?" one of them shouted, scanning the dark courtyard. "Victor, you out here?"

I knelt behind the rear tire of my vintage Bentley, pulled Victor’s radio from his belt, and pressed the talk button.

"He's inside the main foyer," I said, mimicking the raspy tone of one of Victor's gate guards. "Dominic is alone. Secure the back stairs first."

"Copy that," the lead shooter called out. He motioned to four of his men. "Marcus, take the front. You three, round the back service entrance!"

The back service entrance.

My heart slammed into my chest. That was where the back stairs led. That was where Grace and the girls were!

I didn't wait for a tactical plan. I moved like a predator unleashed.

I stepped out from behind the garage door and fired three rapid shots. The lead shooter dropped before he even heard the report. The second man spun around, his weapon raising, but my bullet caught him in the shoulder, throwing him back against the sedan's hood.

"Ambush!" the remaining shooter screamed, spraying a wild volley of automatic fire toward the garage. Bullets shattered the Bentley's windshield and sparked off the stone walls.

I ducked behind the stone pillar, pulled a grenade from Victor's tactical vest—a perk of his military days he always kept nearby—pulled the pin with my teeth, and tossed it beneath the middle sedan.

BOOM!

A violent plume of orange fire and black smoke tore through the courtyard, flipping the sedan onto its side and knocking the shooter off his feet.

Without waiting for the smoke to clear, I sprinted past the burning wreckage, straight toward the side servant entrance of the mansion.

I slammed through the heavy wooden door, bolting it behind me, and sprinted up the back stairwell two steps at a time.

"Grace!" I roared through the shadows. "Grace!"

At the top of the landing, a shadow lunged out of the guest hallway—one of the shooters who had breached through the terrace windows.

He raised a suppressed submachine gun aimed straight at my chest.

Before he could pull the trigger, a heavy porcelain vase smashed violently against the side of his head. The man stumbled, dazed, his gun firing wildly into the ceiling plaster.

Grace stood behind him, holding the shattered neck of an antique vase, her face fierce, her grey eyes burning with primal fury.

I didn't waste the second she had bought me. I lunged forward, grabbed the shooter by his tactical vest, and threw him over the wooden banister. He crashed twenty feet down onto the marble foyer floor below and moved no more.

I panted heavily, wiping blood and rain from my eyes, looking at Grace.

She was trembling, but her hands were steady.

"Where are the girls?" I gasped.

"In the panic room behind the master closet," Grace said, her breath coming in ragged hitches. "I locked them in. They're safe."

I looked at this quiet, humble housekeeper who had just knocked out a professional hitman with a vase to save my life.