She Hired a Bodyguard for Four Hundred Dollars and Spent the Night Ordering Around the City’s Most Feared Mafia Boss

Rafe did not lunge at Sarin. He kicked the heavy wooden crate between them with crushing force.

The solid oak crate slammed into Sarin’s knees like a battering ram. The older man cried out in agony, his balance collapsing. The revolver jerked upward, discharging harmlessly into the high corrugated roof with a deafening boom.

Before the shell casing hit the floor, Rafe was on him.

His right hand clamped over the cylinder of the gun, twisting it violently out of Sarin’s grip with a sickening snap of fingers. Rafe shoved the older man hard against the concrete, pinning him down with a heavy boot pressed directly against Sarin’s throat.

Iris didn't watch the fight. The instant the gun fired, she sprinted straight to Lily.

"Lily! Look at me, sweetie, look at Iris," she whispered frantically, dropping to her knees on the filthy concrete. Her fingers flew to the yellow nylon ropes, but the knots were pulled brutally tight.

"Iris... my rabbit dropped," Lily cried, tears streaming down her pale, dirt-smudged cheeks. "He dropped Barnaby in the puddle."

"I've got Barnaby, baby, I've got him," Iris said, scooping the wet plush toy out of the grease and tucking it into the girl’s small hands. Iris pulled her fine titanium screwdriver from her pocket and wedged it into the knot, using leverage to snap the tension. The rope unraveled.

Iris scooped Lily into her arms, lifting the seven-year-old off the ground and burying the girl’s face into the soft fabric of Marcus’s tactical jacket. Lily wrapped her small arms around Iris’s neck, clinging to her like a lifeline.

"You’re safe now," Iris whispered, her voice breaking. "I have you. You’re safe."

Across the warehouse floor, Rafe looked down at Victor Sarin. His boot remained on the art broker’s windpipe, allowing just enough air for ragged, wheezing gasps.

Marcus stepped forward and reached into Sarin’s cashmere coat, pulling out the velvet pouch. He untied the silk strings and poured the Ashford diamond into his palm.

"Got it, Boss," Marcus said. "The genuine five-carat teardrop."

Rafe didn't take the stone. His eyes shifted across the floor to Preston Mercer, who was trying to crawl on his hands and knees toward the side exit.

"Mercer," Rafe’s voice echoed like a death sentence.

Preston froze. He slowly turned around, sitting in a puddle of oily water, his hands shaking so violently he couldn't keep them flat. "Mr. Calder... please. I was forced into this! Sarin was going to break my legs! He threatened my family! You know how he is!"

"I know how you are," Rafe said, lifting his boot from Sarin’s throat. Marcus immediately zip-tied Sarin’s wrists behind his back.

Rafe walked slowly toward Preston. With every heavy step of Rafe’s leather boots, Preston seemed to shrink further into the grime.

"You used Miss Dunn," Rafe said, standing over him. "You criticized her work. You told her she was small. You told her she was worthless. And then you tried to use her talent to cover your gambling debts and hand a seven-year-old child to butchers."

"Iris!" Preston pleaded, looking past Rafe toward the woman holding the little girl. "Iris, please! Tell him! We were together for three years! You know I’m not a bad person! I just made a mistake!"

Iris looked at Preston. For three years, this man’s opinions had dictated the clothes she wore, the volume of her voice, and the limits of her dreams. She had spent nights crying into her pillow wondering why she was never enough for him.

Now, looking at him huddled in the dirt, she saw him clearly for the first time: a hollow, cowardly parasite who fed on the strength of people better than him.

"You aren't a mistake, Preston," Iris said, her voice cold and completely devoid of pity. "You’re a criminal. And I never want to see your pathetic face again."

Preston’s mouth fell open, stripped of his final defense.

Rafe looked down at him. "Marcus, call Commissioner Vance. Tell him to bring federal marshals to Pier 9. Give him Sarin, give him Mercer, and give him the shipping ledgers stored in Sarin’s yacht."

"No! Not the feds!" Preston sobbed. "My father’s firm—"

"Your father’s firm will survive without you," Rafe cut in. "You won't."

Rafe turned his back on Preston, walking toward Iris and Lily. His severe expression softened as he looked at the little girl clinging to Iris’s shoulder.

"Are you all right, little one?" Rafe asked, his deep voice remarkably gentle.

Lily peeked out from Iris’s neck, her red, tear-filled eyes studying the giant man in the torn black jacket. "You’re big," she whispered.

"I am," Rafe admitted.

"Did you beat up the bad man?"

"I did."

Lily held up her wet, one-eared plush toy. "He got Barnaby dirty."

Rafe reached out. With infinite care, his large, battle-scarred fingers gently patted the stuffed rabbit’s head. "I will have Barnaby professionally cleaned tomorrow morning. By an expert."

Lily snuffled and nodded, resting her head back against Iris’s chest.

Iris looked up at Rafe, her hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Thank you," she breathed.

"We aren't finished yet," Rafe said, offering his hand to help steady her. "It’s twelve forty-five. We have a necklace to assemble and an old lady to satisfy."

As they walked toward the warehouse doors, Marcus suddenly called out from the console near Sarin’s yacht mooring.

"Boss! Wait!"

Rafe stopped, looking back. "What is it?"

Marcus was staring at a ruggedized military laptop taken from Sarin’s briefcase. His face was dead white.

"The ledger isn't just about harbor shipments," Marcus said, his voice tight. "Sarin was brokering a private sale for the Hartwell Gallery board. A transaction that closed tonight at eleven p.m."

Rafe frowned. "What transaction?"

Marcus looked directly at Iris. "Someone bought Dunn Studio’s building, the land beneath it, and all of Miss Dunn’s outstanding bank loans. The buyer signed the foreclosure deed an hour ago."

Iris’s heart stopped. "Who bought it? Who owns my studio?"