Arthur’s fingers brushed Beatrice’s hand as he reached for his glass.

Suddenly, a loud crack echoed from the balcony above.

Not a gunshot.

The sound of shattering crystal.

A heavy chandelier swung violently overhead.

Cables groaned under immense tension.

People screamed.

Arthur surged up from his chair.

He tackled Beatrice to the carpet just as four hundred pounds of bronze and crystal crashed onto their table.

Shards of crystal rained down like diamond hail.

Screams tore through the ballroom.

Arthur’s body completely shielded Beatrice.

His heavy arms locked around her ribs.

The breath was knocked straight out of her lungs.

For three seconds, she could only hear his heartbeat.

Rapid.

Heavy.

Steady as an iron drum.

Dust and powdered glass settled over them.

“Are you hit?” he demanded in her ear.

His voice was raw.

“No,” she gasped, her hands clutching his tuxedo lapels.

“I’m fine. Arthur, you—”

She looked down.

A jagged shard of crystal was embedded in his left shoulder.

Dark blood was already soaking through the fine black wool of his jacket.

“Arthur, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s glass,” he said dismissively.

He pulled her to her feet with one arm, ignoring the wound completely.

His gray eyes swept the upper gallery.

His hand went inside his jacket, resting on the concealed Glock beneath his holster.

Security guards in black suits swarmed the perimeter.

Guests were stampeding toward the emergency exits.

“Marco!” Arthur roared.

His lieutenant appeared through the smoke, gun already drawn low.

“The rigging was cut, Boss.”

“Hydraulic cable was sheared clean.”

“Lock the building down,” Arthur ordered.

“Nobody leaves.”

“Not Leo. Not Spatafora. Not the catering staff.”

“Understood.”

Arthur turned to Beatrice.

He took her face between his large, warm hands.

His thumb brushed a smudge of soot from her cheek.

“You stay with Marco.”

“Like hell I will,” Beatrice snapped.

Her adrenaline surged past her fear.

“That chandelier was anchored above your seat.”

“Someone knew your assigned table.”

“Someone on the seating committee.”

Arthur stared at her.

Even covered in debris, her eyes were blazing with fierce intelligence.

“Sophia Carmichael arranged the seating,” Arthur murmured.

“And Richard Spatafora funded her father’s election,” Beatrice added quickly.

“I saw the offshore wire yesterday.”

A grim smirk touched Arthur’s lips.

“You really are my finest asset, Miss Gallagher.”

Suddenly, the ballroom lights flickered and died.

Total darkness swallowed the room.

The backup generators did not kick in.

Panic erupted again in the blackness.

A cold hand grabbed Beatrice’s wrist from behind.

It wasn’t Arthur.

The grip was rough, smelling of cheap aftershave and gunpowder.

“Quiet, little girl,” a raspy voice whispered in her ear.

“Or the boss gets two bullets in the spine.”

Beatrice didn’t scream.

She drove her three-inch stiletto heel directly into the attacker’s foot.

The man cursed in pain, loosening his grip.

She wrenched her arm free and threw herself sideways into the dark.

A muzzle flash lit the room with a deafening blast.

The bullet shattered a mirror behind her head.

A split second later, another shot roared through the gloom.

A body hit the hardwood floor with a wet thud.

The red laser sight of Arthur’s weapon cut through the drifting smoke.

He caught her around the waist, pulling her behind a massive marble pillar.

“Did he touch you?” his voice was ragged with fury.

“Just my arm,” she panted, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“I stomped his shoe.”

Arthur let out a low, dark laugh.

“Good girl.”

Emergency battery lights hummed to life along the baseboards, casting long, eerie shadows.

On the floor ten feet away lay one of the banquet servers.

A silenced Beretta was inches from his outstretched hand.

A bullet hole was centered perfectly between his eyes.

Leo came running from the hallway, his bow tie undone, face pale as wax.

“Arthur! What is happening?”

“Your wedding is canceled,” Arthur said, not looking at him.

“Leo, where is Sophia?”

“She… she went to the powder room right before the chandelier fell.”

Beatrice pushed past Arthur, her eyes locked on the fallen shooter.

She knelt down, ignoring the blood spreading on the polished parquet.

“What are you doing?” Arthur hissed.

“His sleeve,” Beatrice pointed.

Under the server’s black cuff, a tattoo was partially visible.

Three interlocking silver rings.

“The Triad?” Leo whispered.

“No,” Beatrice said coldly.

“Carmichael Shipping logistics seal.”

“This man wasn’t a waiter.”

“He’s on your brother’s payroll.”

Leo stepped back, shaking his head frantically.

“That’s impossible! Camila’s family runs the docks, they wouldn’t—”

“They would,” Arthur cut him off.

His gray eyes were like chips of flint.

“If they realized Richard Spatafora’s missing three million was already sitting in my vault.”

Arthur grabbed Beatrice by the hand.

His grip was tight, possessive, and warm.

“We’re leaving.”

“Where?” she asked, stumbling slightly as they moved toward the service elevators.