Vanessa Moretti slipped her champagne glass onto a passing tray without taking her eyes off the man near the ballroom doors.

The safehouse was a converted brick warehouse in the industrial district near the docks. Outside, the rain continued to pour, drumbeatting against the corrugated steel roof. Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and fresh coffee.

Damien woke up with a sharp intake of breath.

He bolted upright, but a sharp spike of pain in his shoulder forced him back onto the crisp white sheets of the cot. He winced, gritting his teeth, his eyes wildly scanning the room.

It was a clean, high-tech medical bay hidden within concrete walls. IV drips stood beside him, monitoring monitors beeped softly, and a surgical tray sat nearby, covered in bloody gauze and discarded scalpels. His shoulder was neatly stitched and tightly bandaged under a clean black t-shirt.

"Easy," a voice said from the shadows.

Damien turned his head. Vanessa was sitting in a wooden chair near the corner of the room, cleaning the components of a disassembled suppressed pistol on a small table. She was dressed in black tactical trousers and a fitted charcoal sweater, her damp hair tied back in a tight ponytail. She looked utterly comfortable, her movements practiced and methodical as she oiled the slide of the gun and clicked it back into place.

Damien stared at her. The sight of his wife—the woman he had sworn to protect from the dirt of his world—sitting in the dim light of an underground bunker like a seasoned black-ops operative made his brain short-circuit.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice rough.

"A secure location. Off the grid," she replied without looking up. "My location. Not Moretti property."

"Who operated on me?"

"A friend," she said simply. "Dr. Chen. He doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't answer to the Syndicate or your council."

Damien slowly swung his legs over the edge of the cot. His chest burned, but he forced himself to stand. He took three shaky steps toward her, leaning against a heavy steel pillar for support.

"Three years, Vanessa," he said, his voice deep, vibrating with a mix of betrayal, awe, and rising anger. "Three years we've been married. I kept you in the dark. I lied to you about where my money came from. I hid blood on my hands so you could sleep at night... and the whole time, you were... what?"

Vanessa finally stopped what she was doing. She laid the pistol down on the table, stood up, and walked over until she was standing inches from him. She had to tilt her head up to look him in the eye, but there was no weakness in her stance.

"I was retired, Damien," she said softly. "I was tired of the blood. I wanted a normal life. When I met you at that auction, I saw a man who was dangerous, yes, but a man who had a code. A man who wanted to protect things. So I let you protect me. It was a gift, Damien. A vacation from myself."

"A vacation?" Damien laughed, a bitter, disbelieving sound. "You let me play the big, strong mob boss while you secretly knew twenty ways to kill a man with a piece of footwear?"

"I loved you," she said, her voice dropping to an absolute, unshakeable whisper. "I still love you. But you built your world on the assumption that sweetness is vulnerability. You thought that because I didn't participate in your violence, I was weak. You were wrong."

Damien stared at her, the anger slowly draining from his face, replaced by a profound, terrifying realization. He had spent three years trying to keep her safe from monsters, never realizing that the biggest monster in the room was sleeping right beside him—and she was entirely on his side.

Before Damien could speak, the heavy steel door of the safehouse shuddered.

A red light on the wall began to flash silently.

Vanessa’s expression changed in an instant. The warmth disappeared, replaced by the cold, icy focus of a hunter. She reached to her belt and drew her weapon, racking the slide with a sharp clack.

"They found us," Damien muttered, reaching for a gun on the table.