The night air outside the Aster Hotel was sharp, carrying the heavy scent of harbor salt and exhaust fumes from the city traffic.

The heavy oak doors of the suite muffled the chaos downstairs, but the dull thuds of shouting and the unmistakable pop of a silenced gunshot vibrated through the floorboards.

I paced the length of the bedroom, my fingers digging into my palms. I was trapped in a gilded cage while men downstairs killed each other over a grudge born in a ballroom. The helplessness clawed at my chest, suffocating and sharp.

I survived high school as a nobody, I told myself, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I survived a broke-down Honda in Southie. I’m not going to sit here and wait to be hunted.

I scanned the room. Heavy oak furniture. A marble-topped coffee table. A floor lamp with a heavy cast-iron base.

Moving quickly, I unscrewed the heavy iron base from the lamp. It weighed a good fifteen pounds—solid, brutal, and effective. I crept to the heavy double doors of the suite, pressing my ear against the wood.

Footsteps. Heavy, rushed, and ascending the grand staircase.

One set. Two sets.

“Clear the second-floor landing!” a gruff voice barked from the hallway.

Not Marcus. Not Elena.

My breath hitched. I stepped back into the shadows beside the door, raising the iron lamp base with both hands, muscles trembling with adrenaline.

The doorknob rattled. The lock clicked, but the reinforced deadbolt held.

“Damn it, it’s locked! Blow it!” another voice hissed.

A heavy thud shook the frame as someone slammed their shoulder against the wood. The reinforced oak groaned, splintering slightly around the lock mechanism. A second slam followed, and the door burst open, swinging wide against the wall.

A stocky man in a tactical vest stepped into the room, a submachine gun raised and scanning the shadows.

He didn't check behind the door.

I swung the iron base with everything I had.

CRACK.

The heavy iron connected squarely with the side of his helmet, sending him crashing sideways into the wall before he crumpled unconscious onto the Persian rug. His weapon clattered across the floor.

Before his partner could step through the threshold, I dove, snatching the submachine gun off the carpet. I had never held a real firearm in my life, but the weight felt terrifyingly natural in my trembling hands.

The second intruder stepped into the doorway, his eyes widening as he saw his partner on the floor and me pointing the barrel straight at his chest.

“Drop the weapon!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

He hesitated, his fingers twitching on his own trigger.

Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed from the hallway. Marcus appeared behind the intruder, his pistol pressed against the back of the man's flak jacket.

“Drop it, or I scatter your brains across this hallway,” Marcus growled.

The man dropped his weapon instantly, raising his hands. Marcus slammed the butt of his pistol into the back of the intruder's head, sending him down beside his partner.

Marcus lowered his gun, looking at me standing in the center of the room with a fifteen-pound iron lamp base in one hand and a submachine gun in the other. A slow, appreciative smirk spread across his rugged face.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Ms. Hayes,” Marcus said.