The first time I touched Alessandro Moretti, I was trying to stop him from smashing a crystal glass into another man’s face.

I took slow, calculated steps across the cracked concrete floor, keeping my hands visible. The soles of my heels clicked like a metronome in the cavernous space.

Every nerve in my body was screaming. I searched the rusted steel rafters seventy feet above, but the darkness was impenetrable. I couldn't see Alessandro.

“Here it is,” I said, pulling the black titanium drive from my coat pocket and holding it up in the harsh glare of the work light. “Everything you asked for. The *Aegis-7* files. Customs manifests. Foreign accounts. Now step away from my brother.”

Varga’s eyes gleamed with ravenous greed. He gestured with his chin to one of his goons. “Go get it.”

The bodyguard stepped forward, snatching the drive from my hand. He retreated to a folding table where a portable diagnostic computer was humming, plugging the drive into the USB port.

A series of green verification codes cascaded across the monitor screen.

“It’s real, boss,” the technician muttered. “Primary encryption keys verified. It’s Moretti’s master ledger.”

Varga let out a low, victorious laugh that echoed through the hollow rafters. “The untouchable Alessandro Moretti... brought down by a penniless little waitress.”

He lowered the syringe slightly, stepping away from Marco’s chair. “You know, Isabella, your brother really was quite brave. When he found out my men were using his distribution dock to move counterfeit narcotics, he actually went to the state police. Can you believe that? A minimum-wage dockworker with a moral compass.”

My heart twisted as I looked at Marco. Tears carved clean lines through the dirt on his bruised cheeks.

“He didn't know who owned the police,” Varga continued, shaking his head with mock pity. “So I had to teach him a lesson. A little thallium in his coffee every morning. Just enough to make his hair fall out. Just enough to drain your bank accounts and keep him quiet.”

“You monster,” I choked out.

“Business, darling,” Varga sneered, raising the syringe once more, his thumb resting on the plunger. “And now that I have the drive, both of you are loose ends.”

*Crack!*

High above, a single high-velocity round ripped through the corrugated ceiling.

The bullet struck Varga’s hand, instantly disintegrating the glass syringe into a cloud of fluid and blood. Varga shrieked in agony, clutching his shattered wrist as he stumbled backward.

“Now, Isabella!” Alessandro’s voice roared from the darkness of the catwalks.

Gunfire exploded across the warehouse.

I dove toward Marco, wrapping my body around him as concrete chips sprayed from the floor around us. Bullets peppered the pillars. I whipped the .38 revolver from my coat pocket, aimed at the bodyguard lunging toward us, and pulled the trigger.

The recoil kicked hard into my wrist. The bullet struck the man in the shoulder, knocking him into the wooden crates.

Alessandro descended from a hanging industrial hoist like an angel of death. He fired with ruthless efficiency, eliminating the remaining guards in a matter of seconds before hitting the concrete floor in a combat roll.

“Cut him loose!” Alessandro shouted, tossing a tactical knife at my feet while keeping his gun trained on the shadows.

I grabbed the blade and slashed through the heavy nylon ropes binding Marco’s wrists. “Marco, get up! We have to go!”

“Bella...” Marco groaned, barely able to support his own weight as I hauled him to his feet.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the far end of the warehouse slammed open.

Headlights flooded the floor.

Reinforcements had arrived. But as the vehicles screeched to a halt, the men who stepped out weren't Varga’s soldiers.

It was Vincent Gallo, leading eight heavily armed Moretti enforcers in full tactical gear.

“Boss!” Vincent yelled, moving across the floor with weapons raised. “Perimeter is secure! Varga’s transport is eliminated!”

Relief washed over me so violently that my legs nearly buckled. Marco leaned heavily against my shoulder, breathing raggedly, but alive.

Alessandro lowered his weapon, stepping toward Varga, who was whimpering on the floor, clutching his bleeding arm against a rusted iron drum.

“It’s over, Dante,” Alessandro said coldly, standing over his broken rival.

Varga spat blood onto Alessandro’s polished leather shoes. He looked past Alessandro, straight at Vincent Gallo, and started to laugh—a wet, hysterical, blood-choked laugh.

“You think you won, Moretti?” Varga gasped, his eyes wild. “Look at your lieutenant.”

Alessandro’s head snapped toward Vincent.