The Mafia Boss Unleashed His Dog on a Waitress, Then Froze When Her Necklace Hit the Pavement

The sound of shattering safety glass was instantly swallowed by the roar of Lucas’s movement.

In a fraction of a second, his calm demeanor vanished. His arm wrapped around Quinn’s waist, lifting her off her feet with terrifying strength, and threw both of them behind the heavy, antique mahogany desk just as a second round chewed through the leather sofa where she had been standing seconds before.

Bruno was on his feet instantly, a guttural, terrifying roar vibrating from his chest.

“Stay down!” Lucas roared, pinning Quinn to the Persian rug beneath the desk with the full weight of his body.

The smell of cedarwood was replaced by the acrid stench of cordite and pulverized drywall. Outside, the night sky over the harbor was dark, but on the rooftop of the cold-storage warehouse four hundred yards across the slip, a muzzle flash winked again.

The third bullet blew a hole clean through the computer monitor on the desk above them, showering their hair with plastic shards and sparks.

Quinn couldn't breathe. Her hands clawed at Lucas’s chest, feeling the rock-hard plates of Kevlar beneath his cashmere sweater. “Toby—” she choked out, sheer animal terror seizing her heart. “Toby is at the apartment alone—”

Lucas looked down at her. In the dim, flashing emergency lights of the penthouse, his face was carved out of granite. There was no fear in his eyes. Only a cold, mathematical rage that made him look completely inhuman.

“Teddy has the apartment secured,” Lucas said, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “Two teams. Toby is safe. Look at me, Quinn.”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“I swear on my mother’s grave and yours: Toby is safe. Now stop moving.”

The penthouse double doors flew open, and Teddy burst into the room, a submachine gun tucked tight against his shoulder, followed by three heavily armed men in black tactical gear.

“Suppressed fire from the south silo!” Teddy barked, sweeping the shattered glass window. “Harbor team is moving to flank now!”

Lucas didn't hesitate. He rose smoothly from behind the desk, keeping his body positioned between Quinn and the broken window as if he were made of solid steel. “It’s Vane’s men. Julian finally grew some teeth.”

“Julian Vane?” Teddy’s jaw tightened. “He wouldn't dare hit the Tide directly.”

“He didn't hit the Tide,” Lucas said, his eyes darkening as he reached down and pulled Quinn to her feet, his hands surprisingly gentle as he checked her arms for glass cuts. “He hit *me*. Because he found out I pulled Dr. Mercer from the private board. He thinks I found a weakness.”

Quinn pulled her arm away from his grasp, her voice shaking with rage and shock. “A weakness? You brought this to me! You brought your gang war to my family!”

“Miss Beckett,” Teddy said, his voice unusually sharp. “Julian Vane doesn't negotiate. If his spotters saw you come up that elevator, you are already marked as Lucas Hale’s collateral. If you walk out of this building tonight, you won’t make it three blocks before they put you in the back of a van to use as leverage.”

Quinn looked between Teddy and Lucas. The cold reality of the underworld crashed over her like freezing ocean water.

She had lived her entire life in the margins—quiet, invisible, working double shifts, cleaning tables, paying bills. And in less than twenty-four hours, she had been chased by a mafia boss’s dog, had fifty thousand dollars dumped on her brother’s head, and was now dodging sniper fire on the top floor of a skyscraper.

“My brother,” Quinn said, her voice dropping into a desperate, razor-thin whisper. “I have to get my brother.”

Lucas turned to Teddy. “Prep the armored Suburban. Bring the boy from the apartment. Have Dr. Mercer meet us at the Blackwood estate.”

“Wait,” Quinn cried, stepping in front of Lucas. “No! I am not going to your house! We are going to the police—”

Lucas stopped. He looked down at her, the mask of the Undertaker settling firmly back over his features.

“The police chief in Ashford Bay eats lunch at Julian Vane’s yacht club every Tuesday,” Lucas said flatly. “The captain of the harbor patrol is on my payroll. If you go to the police, Vane’s men will have Toby in an unmarked warehouse before the paperwork is filed.”

He reached out, his thumb catching a single drop of blood that had welled from a tiny glass scratch on her cheekbone. Quinn stiffened, but the sheer intensity in his dark eyes held her paralyzed.

“You don’t have to trust me, Quinn,” Lucas murmured, his thumb brushing away the red drop. “You can hate me for the rest of your life. But if you want your brother to live to see the sunrise, you get in the car.”

Five minutes later, they were in the subterranean garage.

The black, armored Suburban rumbled to life like a caged predator. Bruno jumped into the rear compartment without a sound, sitting sentinel against the tinted glass. Quinn was ushered into the middle row, Lucas sliding in beside her before she could protest, his shoulder pressing against hers as the heavy, reinforced doors clicked shut with the finality of a bank vault.

As the vehicle roared up the concrete ramp and out into the rain-slicked streets of Ashford Bay, Quinn looked out the window.

Two black sedans were already burning near the entrance of the south docks, smoke billowing into the night sky. In the rearview mirror, she saw Teddy Voss methodically reloading an assault rifle under the streetlamps.

Beside her, Lucas Hale pulled a heavy black automatic from his shoulder holster, checked the chamber with a rhythmic *click-clack*, and rested it against his knee.