Three bullets tore through me because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old son of New York’s most feared crime boss.

Dominic didn't flinch. His reaction was terrifyingly smooth—a predator shifting instantly into survival mode. He drew a custom black Staccato 9mm from his shoulder holster with fluid muscle memory.

"Lock down the fourth quadrant and initiate remote bomb-containment protocol," Dominic ordered coldly into his lapel comms. "No one enters or leaves the perimeter. If anything moves without a clearance badge, drop it."

He looked back down at me, his eyes burning with a lethal cocktail of fury, curiosity, and an undeniable, suffocating protectiveness. "Evelyn. That's the name the courier gave."

"Dominic, listen to me," I gasped, fighting through the searing pain in my chest to sit up. "If that package came from the man I saw in the ballroom, it’s not an explosive. It's psychological warfare. He wants you to clear the floor. He wants me isolated."

Dominic paused, his gaze boring into mine. "You're telling me you know who's attacking my house?"

"I thought he was dead. If he's alive, your gates and private militia mean nothing to him."

Before Dominic could press further, the heavy blast doors hissed open. A small figure in superhero pajamas ran through the security team guarding the threshold.

"Mara!" Caleb cried, tears streaming down his flushed face as he threw himself against the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding my bandaged side. "I heard the alarms! Daddy, don't let them take her!"

Dominic's hardened expression fractured for a fraction of a second when he looked at his son. He knelt down, wrapping one large arm around Caleb's trembling frame. "Nobody is taking her, Caleb. I give you my word."

Dominic looked up at me over his son’s head. The tension between us was an electric wire strung across a powder keg. He didn't know whether to interrogate me or shield me with his life. But seeing Caleb cling to my hand, Dominic made his choice.

"Security team Beta, escort Caleb to the underground bunker," Dominic commanded softly.

"No! I want to stay with Mara!" Caleb wailed.

"Caleb," I squeezed his small fingers gently, offering him the calmest smile I could muster despite the agony tearing through my lungs. "Go with Marcus. Look after your father's bunker for me. I'll be right here when you get back."

Caleb sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and nodded. "Promise?"

"Promise."

The moment the doors sealed shut behind Caleb, the room’s air grew frigid. Dominic stepped toward the bed, racked the slide of his weapon, and engaged the manual override on the suite doors.

"The distraction worked," Dominic muttered, his eyes narrowing at the security screen on the wall. The feed from Gate 4 showed the package harmlessly dismantled—inside was only an antique silver music box and a single black chess piece: a white queen snapped in two.

Suddenly, the lights throughout the entire estate flickered and died. The emergency generators hummed, but the backup circuit immediately failed with a shower of sparks outside the window.