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

Emergency red lights kicked on, bathing the ancient Egyptian wing in a sinister, bloody glow.

"Ambush!" Marcus yelled, drawing his sidearm as glass shattered from above.

Panic tore through the gala. Wealthy patrons trampled over each other toward the exits, but the heavy iron security gates slammed shut, locking everyone inside.

Victor Lane had planned this massacre. He didn't just want Alexander dead; he wanted to wipe out the Ashford leadership and seize complete control of New York’s underworld in one bloody night.

Muzzle flashes strobed from the second-floor mezzanine. Two Ashford bodyguards went down instantly.

"Alexander, behind the pillar!" I shouted, grabbing his lapel and dragging him behind a massive stone column as high-caliber rounds pulverized the marble where we had stood a fraction of a second before.

"He bought off the museum security!" Alexander hissed, pulling a compact submachine gun from beneath his custom evening coat. "The exits are sealed from the central control room."

"How many shooters?"

"At least twelve on the perimeter. But someone inside tipped them off to our entry point. Marcus and I didn't tell anyone which gate we were using."

A terrible realization crossed my mind. My father’s words echoed in my ears: *A snake in the grass is dangerous, but the tick inside your collar will bleed you dry.*

"Someone in your inner circle sold you out," I whispered.

Across the smoke-filled hall, I saw Victor Lane retreating toward a private employee exit, shielded by four heavily armed mercenaries. But walking calmly beside him wasn't an outside hitman.

It was Paulie Russo—Alexander’s chief financial advisor and his late father's closest confidant.

"Look," I pointed.

Alexander followed my finger. When he saw Paulie handing a thumb drive to Victor Lane, his face hardened into an expression of pure, unadulterated wrath.

"Paulie," Alexander growled, his knuckles white against his weapon. "He’s been laundering Lane’s offshore funds."

"They're heading for the service tunnels to leave us to die in the crossfire," I said. "We can't let them reach the street."

"Sophia, stay back. Marcus and I will flank them," Alexander said, preparing to break cover.

"You won't make it across the open floor with those snipers on the balcony," I said, reaching down to rip the long slit of my emerald gown higher, giving my legs full freedom of movement. "You take out the sniper on the right chandelier. I'll clear the floor."

"Sophia, no—"

Before he could stop me, I slipped out from behind the pillar into the shadows.

The Quiet Current was never meant for open battlefields; it was designed for narrow alleys, crowded markets, and uneven ground. I moved low, using the fallen banquet tables and marble statues as visual cover, sliding across the polished floor without making a sound.

A mercenary dropped from the balcony onto the floor ten feet ahead of me, his assault rifle sweeping the room.

I closed the distance before he could blink.

I didn't meet his strength with force. As he turned the barrel toward my chest, I slapped the weapon's barrel down, stepped into his blind spot, and drove my elbow into his collarbone. The bone snapped with a dull crunch.

In the same fluid motion, I spun him around, using his body as a human shield against a burst of fire from the second shooter across the hall.

Alexander’s gun barked twice from behind the pillar. The second shooter tumbled over the balcony railing, crashing onto the marble below.

"Move!" Alexander roared, advancing under my cover fire.

We pushed through the smoke and carnage, cutting through Lane’s perimeter with surgical precision. But as we reached the heavy steel doors leading to the service tunnels, the latch clicked shut from the outside.

A television screen mounted on the wall flickered to life.

Victor Lane’s smirking face appeared, seated in the back of an armored limousine already speeding through the streets.

"Impressive, Ashford," Lane sneered through the monitor. "You and your little fighting pet managed to survive the appetizers. But while you were busy playing hero at the museum, my secondary squad paid another visit to your penthouse."

My heart stopped. The world around me went dead silent.

"Did you really think the hospital floor was secure?" Victoria’s spiteful voice chimed in from off-screen. "Tell the maid that her darling little brother has about twenty minutes of oxygen left before we drop him into the East River."