They moved my seat at a luxury charity gala so I would sit beside the scarred mafia boss everyone was afraid to look at

The firefight in the loading dock was short, brutal, and terrifying. Leandro was a force of pure destruction. He didn't fight like a man who feared death; he fought like a man who had already conquered it and returned to drag his enemies to hell.

Using the columns for cover, he advanced on Keller's surviving men with terrifying precision. Every shot he fired found flesh. A mercenary tried to flank him, but Leandro intercepted him with a brutal sweep of his boot, disarming him with one hand and shattering his windpipe with the other.

Keller, realizing his ambush had failed, turned and sprinted toward the private stairwell that led directly back up into the grand ballroom.

"Leandro, he's heading for Vance!" I yelled, scrambling to my feet.

Leandro didn't stop. He vaulted over the hood of a catering van, his tailored tuxedo shredded and streaked with blood, and pursued Keller up the stairs.

"Stay with Evelyn!" he shouted back over his shoulder.

"Like hell I will!" I grabbed a dropped sidearm from the floor—cold, heavy, and terrifying in my hand—and ran after him.

The heavy steel fire door gave way, and suddenly we burst through the backstage entrance of the National Portrait Gallery, spilling out onto the elevated stage directly behind the podium where Senator Julian Vance was delivering his victory address.

The transition from the blood-soaked loading dock to the blinding glare of television floodlights was blinding. Hundreds of high-profile donors, senators, and journalists were seated before the stage, their faces bathed in the glow of the flashing teleprompters.

Keller stumbled onto the stage first, his shirt covered in blood, clutching his shattered shoulder. The audience gasped in shock.

"Senator—!" Keller choked out before collapsing onto the polished hardwood.

Then Leandro stepped through the velvet curtain.

A collective scream erupted from the ballroom. Secret Service agents scrambled, drawing their weapons, shouting conflicting commands over the chaos. National television cameras swiveled immediately, capturing the scarred, bloody figure of the man who was supposed to be dead, towering over the podium.

Vance stood frozen at the microphone, his polished veneer cracking into absolute, raw panic.

"Leandro Moretti," Vance whispered, the microphone amplifying his trembling voice across the entire gallery and to millions of viewers watching the live broadcast nationwide. "You... you're insane."

"I am the ghost you created, Julian," Leandro’s voice boomed through the speakers, deep, resonant, and chillingly calm.

Instead of raising a weapon, Leandro reached inside his shredded jacket. The Secret Service agents leveled their red laser dots squarely onto his chest, screaming for him to freeze.

Leandro didn't draw a gun.