THE HEIR’S RETRIBUTION: WHEN THE MAFIA DON TOOK VENGEANCE FOR THE CURVY MAID

The Maybach’s tires screamed against the wet pavement, fighting for traction as Desmond worked the wheel with mechanical precision. Metal groaned against metal. The black SUV that had rammed them from behind swung wide, attempting to pit-maneuver them off the narrow concrete span of the bridge.

Below, the dark, churned waters of the Ashley River rushed through the marsh grass, swollen with black tide and winter rain.

Marisol cried out, her hands flying to the door handle as the vehicle fishtailed violently.

In a fraction of a second, Rafael’s heavy arm pulled her against his chest, locking her beneath his body like an iron shield. "Stay down!" he roared over the sound of screaming rubber.

A burst of automatic gunfire shattered the darkness outside. Bullets chipped against the reinforced, bulletproof glass of the Maybach, leaving star-shaped white fractures that obscured the marsh lights.

"Desmond, report!" Rafael commanded, his hand reaching beneath his tuxedo jacket to pull a customized matte-black Kimber .45 from an underarm holster.

"Two vehicles, Boss! Croft’s remnants and four mercenaries from Tampa. They’re boxing the bridge exits!" Desmond shouted, his foot slamming on the accelerator. "We’re running on run-flat tires, but the axle won't survive another impact!"

"Ram the rear vehicle," Rafael ordered without hesitation. "Clear the lane."

"Hold on!"

Desmond slammed the brakes, throwing the heavy Maybach into a controlled spin. The trailing black SUV couldn't stop in time, careening past their rear quarter panel. With a brutal crunch of radiator and steel, Desmond accelerated forward, t-boning the mercenary SUV and shoving it squarely over the low concrete barrier. With a horrific screech of metal, the vehicle plunged thirty feet into the black river below, swallowed instantly by the mud and current.

The Maybach screeched to a halt, blocking the bridge deck. Smoke poured from the hood.

The second vehicle, a dark pickup truck, idled seventy yards ahead, its high beams cutting through the river mist. Standing in the bed of the truck, silhouetted against the blinding halogen lights, was Arthur Croft.

He was holding a pump-action shotgun, his white hair plastered against his red, hysterical face.

"Dwarte!" Croft screamed through the rain. "Get out of the car, you bastard! You took my terminals! You took my family’s name! I'm taking everything you have!"

Rafael looked down at Marisol. She was breathing hard against his ribs, her golden skin glowing in the dash lights, her amber eyes wide but remarkably steady. She wasn't weeping. She wasn't hysterical. She looked at the gun in his hand, then up into his face.

"Stay inside the vehicle," Rafael said, his voice dropping into that calm, terrifying quiet. "The glass is rated for armor-piercing rounds. You are safe here."

"Rafael," she said, her fingers catching the lapel of his tuxedo.

It was the first time she had spoken his given name.

He stopped, his slate-gray eyes locking onto hers.

"Don't get killed for my hair," she whispered, her voice fierce, trembling with an emotion that had nothing to do with fear.

A ghost of a smile touched Rafael’s hard lips. He leaned down and pressed a hot, hard kiss against the side of her neck, right where Helene had razor-cut the dark strands clean to the skin.

"I am not fighting for your hair, Marisol. I am fighting for the woman who owns it."

He kicked the door open into the howling Lowcountry wind and rain.

Rafael stepped out onto the bridge deck, an apex predator moving into the light. His tuxedo was drenched in seconds, the fabric clinging to his wide shoulders as he walked toward the high beams of Croft’s truck with measured, unhurried steps.

"Put the gun down, Arthur," Rafael said, his voice easily slicing through the roar of the wind. "You are an amateur playing with men who were born in the dirt."

"I am an Croft!" the old man shrieked, raising the shotgun. "We owned this city before your grandfather stole his first crate of rum!"

Croft racked the slide.

Before the barrel could level, three red laser dots converged simultaneously on the center of Arthur Croft’s chest.

From the tree line at the river's edge, half a dozen men emerged from the shadows—Rafael’s river patrol, heavily armed, their rifles raised with lethal precision.

Croft froze. The shotgun trembled in his hands.

Rafael stopped ten paces away. "Your daughter is currently in the back of a port authority transport, being driven to Savannah under federal warrant for extortion, conspiracy, and customs evasion. If you pull that trigger, Arthur, you will not survive to see her trial."

Croft’s knees gave out. The heavy shotgun slipped from his wet hands, clattering harmlessly against the truck bed. He dropped his head into his palms, weeping in the rain as Rafael’s men swarmed the truck, pulling him down onto the asphalt and securing his wrists in zip-ties.

Desmond stepped up beside Rafael, extending an umbrella. "It's done, Boss. The river is clear."

Rafael turned his back on the broken old man without another word. He walked back toward the smoking Maybach.

The door opened before he reached it.

Marisol stood on the wet asphalt, ignoring the cold rain that instantly speckled the heavy emerald velvet of her gown. She looked past him at the men in handcuffs, then back at Rafael, standing tall, soaked, and entirely hers.

"You're bleeding," she said softly, reaching up to touch a long scrape along his jaw where shattered glass had grazed his skin.