The Mafia Boss Had Never Loved Anyone Until a Soaking...

The trap at Curtis Bay was executed with lethal precision.

By 1:00 AM, Anthony Moretti’s strike team had invaded the central distribution warehouse, expecting an easy takeover. Instead, they found themselves trapped inside a steel kill-box. Rourke's men sealed the reinforced blast doors and opened fire from high gantry positions.

The battle at the docks was swift, decisive, and bloody. Within forty minutes, the Philadelphia force was completely dismantled.

Vincent stood over the wounded Anthony Moretti in the smoke-filled warehouse, his pistol raised.

"This city is mine, Anthony," Vincent said coldly. "It always has been."

Anthony spat blood, laughing maniacally through broken teeth. "You think you won, Rourke? You think you're so smart?"

Vincent’s eyes narrowed. A sudden, terrible instinct clawed at his chest. "What did you do?"

Anthony grinned, his face smeared with soot and blood. "You thought I brought all my men to the docks? I know how you think, Vincent. Curtis Bay was the distraction. The real hit... is at your house."

Vincent’s heart stopped. The world around him went completely silent.

He pulled the trigger, dropping Anthony Moretti instantly, then spun toward Caleb, who was standing nearby holding a tactical radio.

"Caleb! Call the house!" Vincent roared, panic bursting through his veins like liquid fire. "CALL THE HOUSE NOW!"

Caleb raised the radio to his mouth, his face turning pale. "Alpha-1 to Guardhouse! Report! Alpha-1, respond!"

Static filled the speaker.

"...Under attack!..." a frantic voice screamed through the radio static over the sound of heavy gunfire. "...They breached the back gates! Heavy weapons! We are taking heavy fire—"

The radio cut out into dead static.

Vincent didn't wait. He sprinted out of the warehouse, leaping into his armored SUV, slamming his foot on the accelerator. The engine screamed as the vehicle tore out of the dockyard at ninety miles an hour, blowing through red lights, cutting through the dark city streets toward Roland Park.

No, no, no, Vincent prayed silently, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, tears of fury and terror blurring his vision. God, if you exist, take everything I own. Take my empire, take my life, but spare her.

At the Roland Park estate, chaos had broken out.

Twenty heavy mercenaries hired by Moretti had smashed through the rear security gates using a reinforced truck, launching a surprise assault with automatic rifles and smoke grenades.

Caleb’s elite guard unit fought back valiantly, but the sheer surprise and firepower of the attack forced them backward into the central courtyard.

Inside the mansion, Harper stood in the center of the dark library, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The sound of gunfire, shattering glass, and shouting echoed through the thick stone walls.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the library were kicked open.

A mercenary covered in tactical armor walked inside, holding an assault rifle. His face was covered by a black balaclava. He spotted Harper standing near the fireplace.

"Target acquired," the man barked into his shoulder mic. "I have the girl."

Harper didn't freeze. Fear turned into pure adrenaline.

She reached behind her, grabbing a heavy iron fire poker from the stand near the hearth. As the man stepped toward her, reaching out a gloved hand to grab her collar, Harper swung the iron rod with all her strength.

CLANG!

The heavy iron caught the man squarely across the side of his tactical helmet, shattering his visor and disorienting him. He stumbled back, cursing violently.

Harper sprinted past him toward the side exit leading to the service stairwell.

"Bitch!" the man roared, recovering his balance and giving chase.

Harper flew down the dark narrow stairwell, her sneakers slapping against the cold stone steps. She ducked into the basement utility corridors—a dark maze of wine cellars, heating pipes, and old storage rooms.

She hid inside a dark alcove behind a massive row of vintage oak wine barrels, pulling her knees to her chest, holding her breath, her hand tightly gripping the iron poker.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the concrete corridor.

"Come out, come out, little girl," the mercenary’s voice taunted softly. "Moretti wants you alive, but he didn't say anything about keeping all your fingers."

Harper squeezed her eyes shut, silent tears streaming down her face, praying for Vincent.

The footsteps stopped right outside her hiding spot.

The barrel next to her was kicked aside, exposing her position. The mercenary grinned behind his mask, aiming his rifle straight at her head.

"Found you."

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three thunderous gunshots shattered the subterranean darkness.

The mercenary’s eyes went wide with shock. A bloody hole erupted in the center of his chest, and he collapsed forward onto the concrete floor like a sack of bricks.

Standing at the end of the dark corridor, illuminated by the flashing emergency lights, was Vincent Rourke.

His tactical vest was torn, his face was covered in soot and blood, and his smoke-stained gun was still raised.

"Vincent!" Harper shrieked.

Vincent dropped his gun, rushing forward and sliding to his knees in front of her. He pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, burying his face in her neck as deep, ragged sobs wracked his massive frame.

"I have you," Vincent choked out, his voice broken with pure emotion. "I have you, my love. You're safe."

Harper wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, weeping uncontrollably, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against her cheek.