**“POUR THE WHISKEY AND KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT,” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME—THEN SHE ACCUSED ME OF DISRESPECTING HIS FATHER WHEN I REFUSED. BUT WHEN LUCA SAW THE GLASS IN FRONT OF THE OLD MAN, HE ASKED, “WHO SERVED MY FATHER ALCOHOL?” I WHISPERED, “YOUR FIANCÉE TOLD ME TO.” AND HIS FATHER, WHO HAD BEEN SOBER FOR NINETEEN YEARS, BEGAN TO CRY.**

The metallic click of the safety being switched off on Detective Miller’s Glock echoed through the grand foyer like a gunshot.

“Hand over the list, Moretti,” Miller ordered, stepping fully into the room and kicking the heavy oak door shut behind him. The heavy thud sealed us inside with a desperate, corrupt cop who had everything to lose.

Luca didn't flinch. He slowly raised his hands, keeping the piece of paper clearly visible in his left hand. With his right arm, he gently pushed me behind him, shielding my body with his own.

“You think killing us solves your problem, Miller?” Luca asked, his voice dangerously calm. “My men are right outside. The feds are crawling all over the perimeter. You fire that weapon in here, you’ll never make it to your car.”

Miller sneered, a desperate sweat shining on his forehead. “I’m the lead investigator on this raid, Luca. Your fiancée just hired mercenaries to shoot up your house. If I walk out of here and say you two pulled a gun on me during questioning, nobody is going to blink when I put you in body bags. Now give me the paper.”

Frank, standing near the staircase, took a trembling step forward. “Please, officer. Take the list. We haven't read it. We don't care about your politics. Just leave my son alone.”

“Shut up, old man!” Miller snapped, briefly pointing the gun at Frank.

“Don’t look at him!” Luca roared, drawing Miller’s attention back instantly. Luca took a slow step forward, closing the distance by a fraction. “You want the list? Come take it.”

Miller narrowed his eyes. He stepped forward, keeping his gun leveled at Luca’s chest. He reached out with his left hand to snatch the paper.

From my position behind Luca, I was terrified. But as I watched Luca’s hands being raised in surrender, I noticed something missing.

Before the disastrous dinner began, I had helped Luca prepare for the evening. I had handed him his cufflinks, and I had watched him slip a heavy, solid tungsten wedding band onto his right hand—the ring he was supposed to wear after marrying Vanessa.

But as his right hand hovered in the air in front of me, the ring was gone.

I looked down. Luca’s right fist was clenched slightly. I could see the dull silver edge of the heavy tungsten metal concealed perfectly in his palm.

He hadn't raised his hands to surrender. He had raised them to strike.

Luca made brief, intense eye contact with me over his shoulder. It was a silent, desperate command. When I move, get down.

I braced myself, my heart pounding in my throat.

Miller stepped into striking distance. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper. “Smart choice, Moretti.”

“I don't make smart choices,” Luca whispered.

In a blur of violent motion, Luca didn't punch. He threw.

With blinding speed and brutal force, Luca whipped his right hand forward, hurling the heavy tungsten ring at point-blank range directly into Miller’s face.

The heavy metal struck the detective squarely on the bridge of his nose with a sickening crack.

Miller shrieked in agony, his head snapping back as blood exploded from his shattered nose. He stumbled backward, his hands instinctively flying to his face.

The Glock slipped from his grip and clattered onto the marble floor, sliding rapidly toward the coat rack.

“Get down!” Luca yelled, lunging forward to tackle the blinded, bleeding detective.

The two massive men crashed into the antique credenza, splintering wood and shattering the remaining vases.

I didn't cower. I didn't hide.

I threw myself across the marble floor, sliding on my knees through the broken porcelain and spilled dirt. My hands scrambled across the cold stone until my fingers closed tightly around the grip of the police-issue Glock.

The weapon was heavy, much heavier than the submachine gun in the basement.

I scrambled to my feet, raising the gun with both hands just as Luca pinned Miller to the ground, his forearm pressing against the detective’s throat.

Miller gagged, spitting blood, his hands desperately clawing at Luca’s arm. “You’re dead, Moretti! The mayor… the mayor will bury you for this!”

I stepped forward, the barrel of the gun shaking only slightly in my grip. I aimed it directly at the center of the corrupt detective’s chest.

“Let him go, Luca,” I said, my voice echoing clearly in the ruined foyer.

Luca froze. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he saw me holding the weapon with perfect, terrifying clarity.

Slowly, Luca stood up, backing away from the bleeding detective but keeping himself between Miller and me.

Miller groaned, rolling onto his side. He looked up at me, his face a mask of bloody arrogance. “You won't shoot me, sweetheart. You don't have the stomach for it.”