Three bullets tore into my body because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old heir to New York’s most feared billionaire mafia family.

The Atlantic was a black, churning expanse beneath a heavy wall of coastal fog as three 45-foot high-speed stealth interceptor boats cut through the swells at fifty knots.

Dominic stood at the helm of the lead vessel, dressed in sterile black tactical gear, his carbine slung across his chest. I stood behind him in the armored cabin, wearing a kevlar vest over my sweater, my hand resting near the sidearm strapped to my thigh.

Through the mist ahead, the glowing halogen lights of The Sea Falcon appeared like a floating palace of glass and mahogany.

"Radar jammed," Marco announced from the communications console. "Their communications are dark. Boarding in thirty seconds."

The lead interceptor surged alongside the yacht’s starboard stern.

With fluid, military precision, Dominic’s tactical operators fired magnetic grappling lines over the teak railings, boarding the vessel before the yacht’s sentries could raise their weapons.

Four suppressed gunshots echoed over the roar of the engines.

The two deck guards were neutralized in three seconds, their weapons kicked into the ocean.

Dominic kicked open the heavy glass double doors of the grand main salon, stepping across the threshold with his carbine raised at the high ready.

Inside, the dining table was spread with vintage champagne, caviar, and stacks of legal transfer folios.

Julian Vance and Harold Mercer froze mid-toast.

Julian’s champagne flute slipped from his fingers, shattering against the parquet floor, golden wine splashing over his polished leather shoes.

"Dominic...?" Harold Mercer stammered, his face turning an ashen shade of gray as he backed toward the bar. "You... you can't be here! We are in international waters!"

"The Atlantic doesn't have borders for men like me, Harold," Dominic said, his baritone slicing through the salon like a broadsword.

Then I stepped through the doorway, walking into the center of the room.

Julian Vance stared at me as if an apparition had risen from the sea. His hands began to shake violently, his arrogant veneer completely disintegrating into raw, cornered panic.