“Don’t Fall in Love With Me,” She Warned—The Mafia Boss Locked the Door and Broke His Own Rule

The silence that followed the sudden blackout was heavy, absolute, and suffocating.

In the complete darkness, Beatrice’s senses heightened instantly.

She heard the soft, clean click of a holster strap being undone. She felt a thick, warm arm wrap around her waist with gentle, irresistible force, lifting her off her feet and pulling her flush against a massive, solid wall of muscle and dark wool.

Bastion.

"Don't move," his voice whispered directly into her ear—a sound so low and steady it vibrated through her collarbone.

"I can't see anything," Beatrice whispered back, her hands coming up to rest against his broad chest, feeling the thick, Kevlar-reinforced vest beneath his shirt.

"I can," Bastion replied.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the streetlights of 5th Avenue were still glowing eight hundred feet below, casting faint, ghostly grey shafts of light across the dark library floor.

"The main grid didn't fail," Beatrice murmured, her analytical mind instantly assessing the situation despite her hammering heart. "The street is lit. This is a localized thermal pulse or an internal breaker drop."

"Someone cut the line in the hotel basement," Bastion said quietly.

Suddenly, a loud, muffled THUD echoed from the outer hallway beyond the library’s heavy oak doors, followed by the wet, sickening sound of a body hitting the floorboards.

Bastion pulled Beatrice behind the heavy mahogany desk, pushing her down into the recessed knee-space beneath the table.

"Stay down," he commanded in a whisper that was pure steel.

"Bastion—"

"If anyone steps through those doors who isn't me," he growled, pulling a heavy, custom-built black pistol from his shoulder holster, "you drive your silver pen straight through their eye."

Before she could answer, the double mahogany doors of the library exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and broken brass hinges.

Three figures silhouetted against the grey light of the outer hallway stepped into the room.

They wore tactical night-vision goggles, black ceramic body armor, and carried suppressed short-barrel submachine guns.

They didn't speak. They didn't declare an arrest. They swept their weapon barrels across the darkened room in a clean, professional overlapping arc.

Bastion didn't wait.

He stepped out from behind the desk, firing three rapid shots.

STAT! STAT! STAT!

The suppressed cracks of his heavy handgun sounded like snapping wooden planks in the small room. The first two tactical operators dropped instantly, their armor failing against his high-caliber specialized rounds.

The third operator lunged forward, swinging his submachine gun barrel toward Bastion's chest.

Bastion caught the weapon’s hot steel barrel with his bare left hand, twisting it violently to the side while driving his right elbow straight into the operator's throat. The man let out a strangled gasp, dropping his weapon, before Bastion slammed his forehead into the man's face, knocking him unconscious onto the Persian rug.

The room fell silent again, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of Bastion Mercer.

Beatrice scrambled out from beneath the desk, her hair loose, her burgundy blazer dusty, her grey eyes wide with adrenaline.

She walked over to the fallen operator, kneeling beside him without fear, and pulled the night-vision goggles off his face.

"He has a tactical unit patch on his shoulder," Beatrice said, pointing her pen at a small rubber crest depicting a silver anchor wrapped in barbed wire.

Bastion looked down at the crest, his face turning into a mask of pure, murderous rage.

"Ironclad Security," Bastion hissed. "A private maritime mercenary company out of Marseilles."

"Who hired them?" Beatrice asked, standing up.

"Ironclad doesn't take contract orders from outsiders," Bastion said, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying key. "They operate under a permanent exclusive retainer held by my second-in-command."