My billionaire mafia husband asked if I could still love him if he never walked again, but before I could answer, a terrifying phone call changed everything...

The darkness erupted into chaos.

Gunfire tore through the shadows, brilliant muzzle flashes illuminating the rusted rafters like strobe lights. But the screams didn't come from us. They came from Victor's men.

Mateo had already moved, his suppressed pistol spitting silent death into the mercenaries nearest the perimeter. But the true horror—and the miracle—happened right before my eyes.

A low, mechanical whine split the gloom.

Adrian rose.

He didn't stumble. He didn't hesitate. Supported by the pressurized carbon-fiber braces locked around his legs, Adrian Vale rose to his full, towering height of six-foot-three. In the strobe of gunfire, he looked like an ancient, vengeful god rising from the underworld.

A mercenary lunged from the shadows with an automatic shotgun. Adrian caught the barrel with his bare left hand, redirecting the blast into the concrete floor, then drove his right elbow into the man’s larynx with a sickening crunch. Before the guard could hit the ground, Adrian stripped the sidearm from his vest and fired three precise shots into the dark.

Three bodies collapsed.

"Claire! Move to the eastern stairs! Get your mother!" Adrian’s voice roared above the din of combat.

I didn't think. I sprinted toward the metal staircase leading to the catwalk, ducking beneath the crossfire. A mercenary stepped onto the landing above me, raising his weapon. I remembered Adrian’s words. I flicked the ceramic blade from my sleeve and hurled myself forward, driving the blade straight up into the exposed gap under his tactical vest. The man gasped, his eyes bulging, and tumbled over the railing into the abyss below.

Adrenaline surged through my veins like fire. I scrambled up the iron stairs, my knees scraping against the grating, until I reached the catwalk.

"Mom! Mom, wake up!" I sobbed, fumbling with the heavy zip-ties binding her wrists to the chair.

Evelyn opened her swollen eyes, coughing weakly. "Claire... behind you..."

I spun around.

Victor was standing at the end of the catwalk, blood running down his forehead from a shrapnel wound. The ivory-handled revolver was aimed straight at my chest, his thumb resting on the red button of the plastic detonator box in his other hand.