THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY HAIR COVERING ONE EYE

"Stay back!" I shouted, holding the nickel-plated revolver steady with both hands, the heavy metal shaking only slightly in my grip. "I will shoot you!"

Volkov let out a low, mocking chuckle, stepping over the threshold into the library. He didn't even raise his weapon; he looked at me like a wolf looking at a cornered rabbit.

"You don't know how to shoot that, little girl," Volkov sneered, taking another heavy step across the emerald rug. "You don't have the stomach to pull the trigger. Vanessa told me you were just a charity case from the south side."

"I mean it, Volkov!" I warned, my finger tightening against the cold steel of the trigger.

"Moretti wiped out my vanguard in Cicero," Volkov hissed, his eyes burning with rabid hatred. "He burned twenty million dollars of my syndicate's product. But before I take a boat out of this frozen city, I am going to paint this library with your blood, and leave your head on his desk."

He raised his pistol.

I didn't hesitate.

I squeezed the trigger.

The gun roared with a deafening, blinding flash. The recoil snapped violently through my wrists and shoulders, sending a heavy .38-caliber slug tearing through the air.

The bullet struck Volkov high in the right shoulder.

The Russian roared in pain, stumbling backward against the edge of a massive oak bookshelf, his pistol slipping from his bloodied fingers and clattering to the floor.

He looked down at the bleeding hole in his shoulder, his face contorting into pure, demonic fury. "You little whore—"

He lunged at me with his left arm, his massive frame slamming into me before I could fire a second shot.

We crashed into the floor, the revolver flying from my hands. Volkov’s heavy, calloused hand clamped around my throat, cutting off my air instantly. His knee pinned my ribs, crushing the breath from my lungs.

Dark spots danced before my vision. I clawed desperately at his face, digging my fingernails into his cheek, but his grip was like an iron band.

"Die," Volkov choked out through gritted teeth, pressing his thumb into my windpipe.

Suddenly, the red emergency light was eclipsed by a massive shadow.

A hand clad in tactical Kevlar seized Volkov by the back of his neck and the collar of his jacket.

With a roar of pure, unadulterated fury, Luca Moretti ripped the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound Russian off my body as if he weighed nothing more than a child’s toy, hurling him across the room.

Volkov crashed through the glass French doors, shattering them into thousands of glittering crystal shards, landing hard on the snow-covered stone balcony.

I lay on the floor, gasping for air, coughing violently as oxygen rushed back into my burning lungs.

Luca was there in an instant, dropping to his knees beside me. He discarded his tactical rifle, his hands hovering over my face, checking my neck, his dark eyes wide with an emotion I had never seen in him before: pure, terrifying terror for someone other than himself.

"Olivia," he breathed, his voice raw, his hands trembling slightly as he cradled the back of my head. "Olivia, look at me. Breathe. I have you."

"I... I shot him," I gasped between ragged coughs, clutching his Kevlar vest with both hands. "Luca... I shot him."