Her Ex Brought His Mistress to Laugh at Her, but the Mafia Boss Kissed Her Before the Whole City Could Join In

The public arrests of Nolan Pierce and Vanessa Cole had broken the political spine of Marcus Vance’s syndicate, but a cornered beast in the underworld never died quietly.

Two nights after the Autumn Fair, the rain over Lake Michigan turned into a violent squall.

The gale tore through the industrial docks of the south harbor, rattling the corrugated iron roofs of the cargo warehouses. The docks were supposed to be transferred to Armand Holdings at midnight, following the seizure of Vance’s shipping licenses.

Lucian stood near the edge of Pier 14, illuminated only by the sweeping amber beam of a harbor lighthouse.

He wore a dark waterproof tactical jacket, his hands resting in his pockets, flanked by Matteo and six heavily armed men. Behind them, three black SUVs idle with their headlights cutting through the driving rain.

“The loading bays are secure, boss,” Matteo reported over the howl of the storm. “Vance’s remaining crew abandoned the perimeter an hour ago. It’s clean.”

Lucian’s jaw tightened. He looked out over the black, churning water. “Vance doesn't run. Not from this harbor. Something is wrong.”

Suddenly, the headlights of all three SUVs sputtered and died simultaneously.

A high-pitched mechanical whine tore through the darkness—an electromagnetic pulse jammer, knocking out their vehicle electronics.

From the shadows of the surrounding shipping containers, automatic gunfire erupted.

Sparks showered across the wet asphalt as bullets ricocheted off the steel containers.

“Ambush!” Matteo roared, tackling Lucian behind the heavy corner of an iron container as a hail of lead tore through the space where they had stood a second before.

Lucian drew his sidearm with deadly, practiced calm. He leaned out from the container, firing three rapid, suppressed shots. A muzzle flash twenty yards away abruptly cut out, followed by a dull splash into the freezing harbor water.

“He brought his personal mercenaries,” Matteo shouted over the thunderous cracks of rifle fire. “They cut the main road! We’re boxed in against the pier!”

Across the dockyard, behind the wheel of an armored transport truck, Marcus Vance stepped into the rain. He held a military-grade combat shotgun, his face twisted in psychotic desperation.

“ARMAND!” Vance bellowed over the storm. “You took my city! You took my money! But you won’t leave these docks alive!”

Vance racked the shotgun, advancing with four heavily armed men behind a rolling steel blast shield. They were systematically suppressing Lucian’s men, closing the distance to the pier with lethal momentum.

Suddenly, from the far end of the dock access road, the deafening roar of a heavy engine split the night.

A massive, fifteen-ton commercial refrigeration flatbed truck—bearing the bright green and gold logo of *Holloway Sweets*—came barrelling down the access road at fifty miles an hour.

Its high-beam floodlights blazed through the rain, blinding Vance and his mercenary squad.

“What the hell is that?!” Vance screamed, shielding his eyes.

The truck didn't slow down.

It smashed through the flimsy chain-link perimeter gate, swerved hard across the slick wet pavement, and slammed with catastrophic, earth-shaking violence directly into the side of Vance’s rolling blast shield.

The impact sent the steel shield and two of Vance’s mercenaries flying across the pier like ragdolls. The remaining gunmen scrambled in panic to avoid being crushed beneath the massive tires.

The driver’s side door of the delivery truck swung open.

Beatrice Holloway jumped out into the freezing rain.

She was soaked to the skin, wearing an old canvas jacket and work boots, clutching a heavy iron tire iron in her white-knuckled grip.

“Lucian!” she screamed over the howling wind, her eyes wild with panic and fury.

Lucian’s heart stopped.

The terror he had felt when his own men were ambushed was nothing compared to the ice-cold horror that seized his soul when he saw Beatrice standing in the middle of a warzone.

“Beatrice! GET DOWN!” Lucian roared.

Marcus Vance dragged himself up from the asphalt, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. He saw Beatrice standing near the truck cab. A demonic grin split his face.

“Armand’s little baker,” Vance snarled, swinging the barrel of his shotgun directly toward her chest.

Time slowed to a crawling, agonizing heartbeat.

Beatrice saw the black barrel of the weapon level at her eyes.

Lucian broke from the cover of the container.

He didn't seek protection. He didn't fire his weapon. He threw his entire body across the open asphalt, hurling himself between the gun and the woman he loved.

*BOOM.*

The shotgun roared into the storm.

Lucian collided with Beatrice, knocking her backward behind the heavy steel wheel-well of the delivery truck just as the blast of heavy buckshot tore through the air.

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from Lucian’s throat.

They hit the wet concrete together.

Beatrice scrambled up, her hands frantic on his chest. “Lucian! Lucian!”

Lucian was on his knees, one hand pressed hard against his left shoulder. Dark, thick crimson blood was already seeping through the torn fabric of his tactical coat, washing away in the driving rain.

“You’re hit!” she sobbed, terror choking her throat. “Oh God, you’re hit!”

“I’m… fine,” Lucian grunted through clenched teeth, his face pale with agony, though his eyes remained fiercely, desperately locked on hers. “Why… why are you here?”

“Matteo’s guard at the estate… I heard his radio!” she cried, tears mixing with the rain on her cheeks. “They said you were trapped! I couldn't let them kill you! I couldn't!”

Before Vance could cycle another round into his shotgun, Matteo appeared from the flank.

Three deafening shots cracked through the rain.

Marcus Vance staggered backward, his shotgun slipping from his lifeless fingers, before he collapsed over the low concrete seawall and plummeted into the churning, icy black depths of Lake Michigan below.

The gunfire ceased completely.

The remaining mercenaries threw down their weapons, raising their hands in the darkness as the distant, wailing sirens of twenty police cruisers began to echo from the harbor highway.

Matteo rushed to the truck, his face pale as he saw his boss on the ground. “Boss! We need a medic!”

“Get… her out of here,” Lucian ordered, his voice growing weak, his breath shallow as he leaned heavily against Beatrice’s shoulder.

Beatrice didn't listen to him.

She stripped off her canvas jacket, balling it up, pressing it with all her strength against the bleeding wound at his shoulder to staunch the flow.

“Look at me, Lucian!” she commanded, her voice fierce, trembling, yet ringing with undeniable authority. “Look at me!”

Lucian’s dark eyes fluttered, focusing on her face—the fierce baker from Elm Street who had driven a fifteen-ton truck into a firefight just to keep him breathing.

A faint, blood-stained smile touched his lips.

“You… are entirely… terrifying, Beatrice Holloway,” he whispered.

“Shut up and stay awake,” she cried, pressing her forehead against his wet cheek, her tears warm against his cold skin. “You promised me an alliance. You promised me six months. You don’t get to die on me now.”

Lucian lifted his uninjured hand, his trembling, bloody fingers cupping the back of her neck, pulling her down until his lips brushed hers in the freezing rain.