Seven bullets were still inside my body when Dominic Rossi put a gold ring on my swollen finger and married me beside an intensive-care bed. I was unconscious, breathing through a tube, and had no idea the most feared crime boss in New York had leaned close and whispered, “Now anybody who comes for you comes through me.”

The ballroom noise had swelled into a deafening roar of laughter, clinking crystal, and string-quartet crescendos. I had retreated toward the perimeter, sliding along the velvet-draped walls near the service corridor to catch my breath and swallow a rushed cup of water.

That was when the rhythm of the room shifted.

It wasn't a sound at first; it was an instinct honed by years of walking through rough Queens neighborhoods late at night. A ripple in the human current.

I glanced up and saw a man moving against the disciplined flow of the catering staff. His black vest and white shirt matched ours, but his posture was rigid, predatory. His right hand disappeared beneath the fabric of his jacket, and his eyes weren't scanning the tables for empty glasses.

They were locked entirely on Isabella Rossi.

Time seemed to stutter, stretching into a viscous, agonizing crawl. I saw the dull glint of matte steel emerge from his coat.

A gun.

“Get down!” I screamed, my voice tearing raw through my throat.

My heavy silver tray slipped from my fingers, hitting the Italian marble with a deafening crash as dozens of crystal flutes exploded into a million glittering shards.

Dominic, standing fifty feet away, immediately reacted, his hand diving beneath his midnight jacket. But he was too far. The angle was wrong.

I was closer.

Without calculating the risk, without thinking of my mother, my rent, or my own fragile survival, I threw myself forward. I slammed bodily into Isabella, driving her off her high-heeled stride and sending us both crashing hard onto the marble floor just as the first deafening crack of gunfire tore through the ballroom.

Panic erupted instantly. The crystal chandeliers overhead seemed to tremble as high-society guests shrieked, scattering like broken glass, diving beneath tables and trampling one another in a stampede of terror. Champagne spilled across the floor, mixing with the widening arcs of panic.

Isabella was trapped safely beneath my torso, her eyes wide with shock as she clutched a silver rosary in her trembling hand.

Then came the impact.

The first bullet hit my back like the stroke of a sledgehammer, driving the air from my lungs in a violent gasp. Pain bloomed instantly—hot, searing, and absolute, tearing through my tissue between my ribs.

The second bullet stole whatever oxygen remained in my chest, turning my breath into a bloody rattle.

By the third, the ambient noise of the ballroom vanished, replaced by a high-pitched, deafening ring that filled my ears.

More bullets tore through my flesh, heavy impacts thudding into my back and shoulders while my body remained locked over Isabella's, acting as a human shield. Somewhere beyond the roaring crimson wave in my mind, Dominic shouted a command that shook the walls, another firearm roared in return, and then, abruptly, the gunfire ceased.

Heavy footsteps echoed frantically across the shattered glass. Strong arms rolled my limp body onto my back.

My catering uniform was already soaked entirely in a heavy, dark crimson.

“The lady…” I managed to choke out, blood bubbling past my lips.

Dominic’s face hovered above mine, pale beneath his tan, his jaw locked so hard muscle ticked violently in his cheek. “My mother?”

I forced my blurring gaze past his shoulder, finding Isabella kneeling behind him, wide-eyed, trembling, but alive.