Three hundred guests watched the fiancée of New York's most feared mafia boss swing her jeweled heel toward my leg, trying to send me crashing into a tower of champagne glasses

My mind went blank. The fear vanished, replaced by an icy, ancient focus.

I surged past Alexander on the stairs, moving with a silent, fluid speed that startled his men. Reaching the third-floor landing, I saw our apartment door kicked inward, dangling from a broken hinge.

Inside, a man in a black leather jacket held my mother by her hair, a revolver pressed against her temple. My little brother Mateo was curled in the corner beside the TV, wheezing violently, his face turning an alarming shade of blue as he clutched his chest.

Another armed goon stood near the hallway, rifle raised.

"Drop your weapons or the old bitch gets it!" the man holding my mother screamed as Alexander's security team leveled their weapons from the hallway.

Alexander raised a fist, signaling his men to hold. "You're Victor Lane's dog. Tell him this is where his life ends."

"I don't give a damn about Ashford!" the thug sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger. "The boss said take the family, and if the family screams, put 'em down!"

The second guard shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward Alexander.

That shift was all I needed.

I didn't draw a weapon. I didn't yell.

I stepped through the doorframe like smoke.

The rifleman saw me out of the corner of his eye and pivoted to aim. Before his barrel completed the turn, my left hand slapped the underside of his wrist upward—deflecting the line of fire—while my right palm drove upward into his armpit, pinching the brachial plexus nerve.

His arm went limp instantly. His rifle clattered to the linoleum.

Before he could shout, my body rotated, using his falling momentum to sweep his legs out from under him. He hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud.

The man holding my mother gasped, his eyes widening in pure disbelief. He pulled the revolver away from my mother's head to aim at me.

*Too slow.*

I closed the distance in half a heartbeat. My fingers locked around his cylinder, preventing the hammer from striking the cartridge. With a sharp, circular twist of my hip, I stripped the weapon from his grip, dislocating his index finger in the process.

He howled in agony.

I drove the heel of my palm into the center of his chest. The strike didn't leave a bruise, but it sent a shockwave through his sternum that knocked the breath completely out of his lungs. He collapsed onto his knees, gasping for air, totally incapacitated.

Silence descended upon the tiny apartment.

Alexander stood in the doorway, lowered his gun slowly, and stared at me. Behind him, his tactical operators looked like they had just witnessed an illusion.

"Mama," I whispered, dropping to my knees and pulling her trembling body into my arms. "Mama, are you okay?"

"Sophia..." she sobbed, clutching my soaked shoulders. "Mateo... he can't breathe..."

I spun toward the corner. Mateo was gasping, his fingernails turning purplish. His plastic inhaler lay crushed under the boot of the fallen thug.

"His inhaler is broken," I cried out, my voice cracking with panic. "Call an ambulance! Please!"

"We don't need an ambulance," Alexander said, his voice cutting through the panic with absolute authority. He stepped into the room, knelt beside my brother, and gently lifted the boy into his arms.

"Marcus! Get Dr. Chen on the phone right now. Have the private medical suite at the penthouse prepared with pediatric pulmonary equipment. We move now!"

Alexander carried my brother out of the apartment as if he were his own flesh and blood. As he passed me, he paused.