The most feared mafia boss in Chicago asked me to name my price for spending one night with him, and I answered, "$49,200." He thought I was another hotel maid trying to get rich, but that was the exact amount I needed to pay my dead mother's hospital bills and finally bring her home for burial.

The truth bound us together in a way neither of us could have anticipated. In the days following the confrontation in the study, the walls between us dissolved completely. I stopped sleeping in the guest wing. I slept in Nathan’s bed, wrapped in the protective fortress of his arms, finding solace in the quiet vulnerability he only showed when the bedroom door was locked.

He taught me how to shoot a small 9mm Glock on his private estate range, his broad hands guiding mine over the grip.

"I never want you to need this," he murmured against my ear as my bullet hit the center of the target. "But if the world comes for you, I want you ready to take their heads off."

It was 2:30 AM on a Tuesday when the world finally came.

A deafening explosion ripped through the silence of the night, shattering the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the grand foyer downstairs. The entire mansion shook violently on its foundations.

Alarms wailed, their red strobe lights bathing the bedroom in blood-colored light.

Nathan was out of bed before the glass had even finished hitting the floor. In three seconds flat, he pulled on tactical pants, grabbed an automatic assault rifle from the walk-in closet, and tossed a loaded pistol onto the mattress beside me.

"Moretti," Nathan said, racking the bolt of his rifle. His eyes were pure, lethal obsidian.

Outside, the crackle of automatic gunfire erupted across the estate grounds. Guard dogs howled, followed by the terrifying thump of flashbang grenades.

"The perimeter sensors didn't trigger," I gasped, throwing on my robe and grabbing the gun with shaking hands. "How did they get past the gates?"

"Someone turned off the grid from the inside," Nathan answered coldly. "We have a traitor."

The bedroom door burst open. Cole stumbled inside, his shoulder soaked in dark blood, clutching a sidearm.

"Boss! It's Moretti’s primary strike team! At least thirty men armed with heavy ordinance! They breached the southern courtyard! terminal manager Vance sold them the security bypass!"

"Where is Mrs. Gable?" Nathan demanded.

"In the underground panic bunker," Cole coughed, wincing in pain. "We need to get you and Bella down there now!"

Nathan grabbed my hand, pulling me into the hallway. "Stay behind me. If anyone rounds a corner without my clearance, shoot."

The grand hallway was filled with thick, acrid smoke. We moved toward the service elevator at the end of the corridor. Downstairs, the sounds of battle were brutal—shouts in Italian, screams of dying men, and the relentless shatter of marble being shredded by high-caliber rounds.

Suddenly, two heavily armed men in black balaclavas charged up the secondary service stairs, their rifles raised directly at my chest.

"Bella, down!" Nathan roared.

He threw his entire body over mine, tackling me to the floor as a deafening burst of gunfire erupted. The shockwave rattled my skull. I felt Nathan’s body violently jerk above me. A sharp, guttural grunt escaped his lips.

Nathan rolled, bringing his rifle up with savage precision. Two double-taps echoed in the narrow corridor. The two attackers collapsed backward down the stairs, their weapons clattering away.

"Nathan!" I cried out, scrambling onto my knees.

His face was pale, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Blood was already spreading rapidly across the dark fabric of his right shoulder, soaking through his shirt.

"I’m fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, pushing himself up with his left arm. "Keep moving. The elevator is ten feet away."