The silence inside L’Ancora stretched like a pulled wire.

The two men by the entrance—tall, broad-shouldered, with the cold, flat eyes of hired mercenaries—didn’t draw weapons immediately, but their posture was unmistakable. They weren’t Mercer men. I knew every captain, soldier, and associate in Dominic’s inner circle. These men belonged to the Moretti family—Dominic’s fiercest rivals for control of the Boston waterfront.

Thomas Vale stepped smoothly out of the rear shadows, moving between the tables with terrifying grace. He stopped five feet from my side, his body positioned to shield both me and Simon from the entrance.

“Ms. Gallagher,” Thomas said in his raspy, quiet voice, never taking his eyes off the two men at the door. “Mr. Mercer suggested you might find your dinner interrupted tonight. He sent me to ensure you made it home safely.”

Simon was trembling beside me, his knuckles white as he held onto the back of my chair. “Norah… who are these people? Is this a robbery? Should I call the police?”

“Don’t pull out your phone, Simon,” I warned sharply, my mind racing through calculations. “If you touch your phone, you will die.”

The lead mercenary by the door took a step forward, his rain-drenched coat heavy against his frame. “Vale,” the mercenary grunted, his hand resting conspicuously over his chest pocket. “We aren’t here for you. The girl comes with us. Don Moretti wants a quiet conversation about the Mercer accounts she’s been balancing.”

So that was it. My worst nightmare made real.

Dominic hadn’t followed me out of possessive jealousy. He had followed me—or sent Thomas to watch me—because he knew the Moretti family had realized who held the keys to his empire. I wasn’t just Dominic’s financial administrator; I was the only person alive who knew where sixty million dollars of untaxed shipping revenue was hidden across forty offshore accounts.

If the Morettis took me, they wouldn’t just tear Dominic’s empire apart; they would torture me until I gave up every ledger entry, password, and dummy corporation name.

“Don Moretti can ask his questions to the harbor police,” Thomas Vale said softly.

In a movement so fast it seemed almost inhuman, Thomas pulled a silenced 9mm from beneath his coat.

THWIP! THWIP!

Two quiet coughs tore through the quiet restaurant.

The lead mercenary collapsed backward against the glass door, his eyes wide in sudden shock as two red blossoms bloomed across his chest. The second mercenary lunged for his own weapon, but Thomas fired a third round with surgical precision, striking him in the shoulder and sending him crashing through a wooden dining divider.

Pans clattered in the kitchen. The waiter shrieked, diving behind the bar.

Simon let out a strangled gasp, falling backward onto the carpet, staring at the blood pooling near the door in absolute horror.

“Simon!” I knelt down, grabbing his tweed jacket and hauling him to his feet. “Move! Out the back door!”

“You… you killed them!” Simon choked out, his voice high and hysterical, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at me as if I were a monster. “Norah, what are you?! Who are you?!”

“I told you I worked in finance!” I shouted over the ringing in my ears, dragging him toward the kitchen entrance.

“THIS ISN’T FINANCE!” he screamed.

Thomas Vale stepped past us, kicking open the kitchen door and checking the alley outside. Rain was pouring down in sheets, bouncing off the steel dumpsters.

“Alley’s clear,” Thomas reported calmly, ejecting his spent magazine and slapping a fresh one into his pistol with a crisp clack. “A car is waiting at the end of the block. Move, Ms. Gallagher. Now.”

I dragged a half-fainting Simon through the kitchen, past terrified line cooks cowering behind stainless-steel counters, and out into the freezing rain.

At the mouth of the dark alley, a black armored sedan sat idling, its dark-tinted windows reflecting the neon glow of a nearby streetlamp.

The rear door clicked open from the inside.

I pushed Simon toward the door. “Get in! Move!”

Simon scrambled into the leather interior, shuddering and gasping for breath. I threw myself in beside him, slamming the heavy door shut behind me.

The car immediately surged forward, its heavy tires screeching against the wet pavement as it accelerated into the Boston night.

I turned to look at Simon, reaching out to check him for injuries. “Simon, are you hurt? Did a round hit you?”

Simon pulled away from my touch as if my hands were coated in poison. He pressed himself against the far door of the sedan, trembling uncontrollably, his eyes filled with sheer, unadulterated terror.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Please… don’t touch me.”

I froze. The rejection hit me like a physical punch to the chest.