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

"It’s Don Carmine’s men," Damien said, leaning over the small desk to look at the monitor, his hand resting heavily on the wood to keep his balance. "Luca didn't act alone. He sold out to the Carmine Syndicate."

"I know," Vanessa said smoothly. "Carmine has been trying to take over your docks for six months. Luca was his key to the front door."

Damien looked at her sideways. "How do you know about the docks?"

Vanessa gave him a look that said really?

"Right," Damien muttered, rubbing his face with his uninjured hand. "Stupid question. What's the play here? We have one exit, two guns, and I can barely throw a punch without tearing my stitches."

"You aren't throwing punches," Vanessa said, picking up two spare magazines and sliding them into her tactical vest. "You're sitting behind that reinforced steel desk, keeping the encrypted drives safe. I am going to clear the entryway."

Damien grabbed her arm. His grip was tight, desperate. "No. Absolutely not. I am not letting my wife walk out there to take on a firing squad while I hide in a corner."

Vanessa looked down at his hand on her arm, then back up to his eyes. The tension between them was palpable—a tug-of-war between his deeply ingrained instinct to protect and her ruthless efficiency.

"Damien," she said softly, placing her hand over his. "In your world, a boss leads from the front because he has to prove he’s the strongest. In my world, a survivor does whatever is necessary to win. Right now, you are injured. You are a liability in a close-quarters firefight. I am not."

"It's my war, Vanessa!"

"It became our war the moment they tried to put a bullet in your chest in front of me," she snapped, her eyes flashing with a fierce, terrifying passion. "You want to protect me? Then trust me. Trust that I can handle them. If you walk out there like this, you die, and then I have to kill every single one of them out of revenge anyway. Let's cut out the middleman."

Damien stared at her, his throat working as he swallowed down his pride, his instinct, and his fear. He looked into her eyes and saw no fear—only lethal, absolute certainty.

Slowly, he released his grip.

"Three magazines," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "If you aren't back in five minutes, I'm coming out with a grenade."

Vanessa smiled—a genuine, sharp, dangerous smile that made Damien’s heart leap in a way it never had before.

"Deal," she whispered.

She turned and moved toward the heavy steel doorway leading to the outer warehouse floor. She slipped through the shadow of the door frame just as the sound of breaching charges echoed through the thick metal walls.

BOOM.

The heavy front doors of the warehouse blew inward, sending smoke and sparks flying into the dark, cavernous space.

Through the haze, six heavy-set men in tactical gear stepped inside, weapons raised, laser sights cutting red lines through the floating dust.

"Search the perimeter!" the lead soldier shouted. "Carmine wants Moretti dead and the case secured! Kill anyone else inside!"

From high up in the steel rafters, hidden in the pitch-black shadows near the ceiling, Vanessa listened. She adjusted her grip on her suppressed pistol, her eyes tracking each target with cold precision.