Her Doctor Secretly Sent Photos of Her Bruises to the Mafia Boss at Midnight—His Response Was Immediate

Glass shattered inward.

The SUV slammed into a concrete light pole, coming to a violent halt. Airbags deployed with deafening pops, filling the cabin with white powder and smoke.

Selene's head snapped back against the headrest, her vision flashing white with sudden pain.

"Selene!"

Damen's voice cut through the ringing in her ears. He was already moving, ignoring his own bloodied forehead, pulling her down toward the floorboards of the rear seat.

Outside, automatic gunfire erupted.

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Bullets raked the armored side panels of the Mercedes, sound like heavy hail hitting a tin roof. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, motionless.

"Stay down!" Damen ordered, pulling his firearm from his holster.

He kicked the undamaged rear passenger door open, using it as a shield while returning fire into the blizzard. Two men in tactical masks were advancing down the street, holding assault rifles.

Damen fired four precise shots. Both attackers dropped into the slush on Michigan Avenue.

"We have to move," Damen gritted out, grabbing Selene's arm and pulling her out of the wrecked vehicle into the freezing snow. "Their backup is coming from the alley."

Selene stumbled, her ankle throbbing with sharp pain, but she forced herself to run beside him. The street was deserted—morning traffic had been blocked by the heavy snowstorm, leaving the high-end shopping district eerie and silent.

Damen pulled her into the alleyway behind an upscale jewelry store, shooting out the heavy electronic lock on the rear service entrance.

He shoved her inside the dark hallway, kicking the heavy steel door shut behind them and deadbolting it.

They were inside the lower basement service tunnel of the hotel block.

Damen slumped against the concrete wall, breathing heavily. Blood was pouring from a deep gash on his shoulder where a piece of metal framing from the SUV had torn through his coat.

Selene immediately dropped to her knees beside him. "You're hit."

"It's just a graze," Damen gritted out, his jaw tight with pain.

"I'm a trauma doctor, Damen," she snapped, ripping open his shirt collar to inspect the wound. "It's a four-inch laceration over your subclavian artery. If that tear reopens while you're running, you'll bleed to death in six minutes."

Damen looked down at her small hands pressing firmly against his bleeding shoulder, her face flushed with concern, her dark eyes flashing with fierce authority.