The heavy mahogany door swung shut with a muted thud that sounded like a gavel falling on a death sentence.

Chaos erupted with the deafening roar of a 12-gauge shotgun shattering the brickwork above our heads.

Plaster exploded into white dust, showering my hair and shoulders. The room devolved into screaming, overturned tables, and the sharp, rhythmic crack of Marcus’s pistol returning fire.

Vincent moved with terrifying, fluid speed.

He didn't duck; he lunged forward, grabbing the lapel of my navy wool suit with one massive hand and violently yanking me behind the heavy oak bar. A second later, a spray of buckshot shredded the bottles of rye and bourbon directly above where I had been standing, drenching us in cheap alcohol and raining jagged glass onto the floorboards.

“Stay here,” Vincent commanded. His weapon was in his hand now—a custom black .45 that looked brutally utilitarian in his large grip.

“Vincent, Evan is still in the booth!” I screamed over the deafening noise of the gunfire.

Across the room, through the smoke and muzzle flashes, I could see Evan curled beneath the velvet table, his hands over his head, utterly paralyzed by the reality of a syndicate execution. Valenti’s men were advancing, using the heavy columns as cover, moving toward the boy to finish him off.

Vincent saw it too. His jaw tightened until the muscle looked ready to tear through the skin.

“Marcus!” Vincent shouted through the din. “Cover the rear door!”

Vincent didn't wait for a response. He broke from the cover of the bar, firing three rapid, precision shots that dropped the first shotgun-wielding gunman near the pool tables. He moved with an efficiency that defied his fifty-one years, every step calculated, using the overturned gaming tables for brief moments of concealment.

“Evan! Move!” Vincent bellowed.

A second shooter leaned out from behind an iron pillar, leveling a hunting rifle directly at Vincent’s exposed flank. Vincent was focused on Evan; he didn't see the man lining up the sights.

My mind didn't process the danger. There was no calculation, no fear, no survival instinct. There was only the unbearable thought of Vincent Marlowe bleeding out on a dirty Queens floor.

I grabbed an unbroken crystal bottle of scotch from the lower shelf behind the bar, scrambled out from cover, and hurled it with every ounce of strength in my body.

The heavy glass struck the shooter squarely in the side of the temple, shattering on impact. The rifle discharged into the ceiling, blowing a hole through an air duct.

The man stumbled, cursing, and turned his bloody face toward me. He raised the barrel of the rifle.

“Claire!” Vincent’s voice was a roar of pure, unadulterated terror.

I froze, staring down the black bore of the barrel.

The sound that followed wasn't a rifle shot. It was the heavy, thundering crack of Vincent’s .45 firing twice in immediate succession. The man dropped like a sack of wet concrete.

Before I could breathe, Vincent was on me. He tackled me against the side of the bar, shielding my body with his entire frame just as Valenti fired a desperate burst from a small-caliber submachine gun.

A sharp, wet gasp escaped Vincent’s throat.

His body shuddered against mine, his weight suddenly bearing down heavy and hot. A strange, sharp smell joined the stench of alcohol and cordite—the thick, metallic heat of fresh blood.

“Vincent?” I whispered, my hands clutching his back.

My fingers slipped against warm, soaking wet silk.

“I’m fine,” he grunted through clenched teeth, though the color was already draining from his lips. He spun around, propping himself against the bar, and fired two more rounds toward the exit corridor where Valenti was retreating.

Sirens wailed in the distance—not city police, but the coordinated sirens of Marlowe logistics security squads converging on the block.

Marcus appeared through the smoke, his weapon smoking, stepping over the fallen bodies. “Clear! The rest of them bolted through the alley! Boss, we have to move now!”

Evan crawled out from under the booth, his face white as chalk, his trembling hands covered in dust and plaster. He looked at the bodies on the floor, then at his father, and finally at the dark red stain spreading rapidly across Vincent’s charcoal vest.

“Dad?” Evan’s voice was the voice of a terrified child. “Dad, you're hit.”

Vincent pushed himself upright using the edge of the bar, refusing to let his knees buckle. He looked at his son with eyes that were fading, but still carried the weight of an empire.