She Accidentally Called the Mafia Boss “Baby”—Then His Smile Made the Whole Room Go Silent.... and he smiled sideways: "Say it again, slower."

Twenty minutes inside an armored vehicle while a gunfight raged two hundred yards away felt like twenty hours.

Evelyn watched through the rain-streaked, bulletproof glass as flashes of light illuminated the dark silhouettes of shipping cranes. Marco sat in the driver’s seat, his hand resting calmly on the wheel, his gray eyes monitoring three rear-view mirrors simultaneously.

“Is he always like this?” Evelyn asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

“Like what, Miss Vance?” Marco asked without looking back.

“Like he’s playing a game of chess while the world burns around him.”

Marco let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh. “Mr. Moretti’s grandfather came to this country with fifty dollars and built a fleet of three tugboats. When the local gangs tried to sink them, his father fought back with shotguns. Mr. Moretti didn't inherit an empire, Miss Vance. He conquered it. You don't hold New York harbor by being fragile.”

Suddenly, the driver-side window of the SUV was struck by a loud, metallic CLANG.

Evelyn flinched violently.

A man had thrown himself against the side of the Maybach. He was wearing a grease-stained mechanic’s jacket, bleeding heavily from a wound on his shoulder, his eyes wild with terror. He beat his fist against the glass.

“Marco!” the man screamed through the rain. “Marco, open up! They’ve got the back exit cut off! Russo’s bringing up two armored trucks!”

Marco’s eyes narrowed instantly. He reached for his holster. “Stay down, Miss Vance.”

Marco unlatched the heavy driver door, stepping out into the storm with his weapon drawn to pull the wounded union worker toward safety.

It was a distraction.

Before Marco could shut the door, two men in dark hoodies rushed out from between two nearby shipping containers. One of them swung a heavy iron pipe, striking Marco across the back of the neck. Marco went down on the wet gravel with a heavy thud.

Evelyn’s heart stopped.

The second man lunged into the front seat of the Maybach, his eyes locking onto Evelyn in the rear. He pulled a serrated hunting knife from his belt.

“Moretti’s little girl,” the man grunted, leaning into the back cabin, reaching for her throat. “Russo wants a word with you.”

Adrenaline flooded Evelyn’s blood like liquid fire.

Her law school training vanished, replaced by the instinct of a cop’s daughter who had spent four years taking self-defense classes in Queens.

She didn't scream. She didn't shrink back.

Evelyn grabbed the heavy silver thermos of hot coffee sitting in the rear cup holder and swung it with all her strength into the man’s face.

CRACK.

The metal container shattered his nose. The man roared in pain, blood spurting over his jacket as he stumbled back against the steering wheel.

Evelyn didn't wait. She scrambled across the plush leather seat, kicked open the passenger door, and tumbled out onto the wet asphalt into the pouring rain.

Cold water slapped her skin, instantly soaking her cream cashmere sweater.

She scrambled to her feet, running blindly toward the maze of iron shipping containers away from the burning warehouse.

Footsteps slammed against the wet pavement behind her.

“Get back here, bitch!” the man screamed, his blood-covered face terrifying beneath the flickering amber streetlamps.

Evelyn turned sharp right down a narrow alley between two giant red containers. It was a dead end—blocked by a wooden pallet stacked six feet high with rust-covered iron chains.

She whipped around, her back slammed against the cold steel of the container, her chest heaving, her hands searching the ground for a weapon.

The man rounded the corner, his knife dripping with rain, a horrific grin spreading across his bloody mouth.

“End of the line, college girl,” he rasped, stepping closer.

Before he could take another step, a hand reached out from the dark gap between the containers behind him.

A large, leather-gloved hand wrapped around the man’s throat with terrifying, instantaneous force.

THUD.

The man’s head was slammed backward against the iron wall of the container with enough power to dent the steel. His eyes rolled back, his knife clattering onto the gravel, and he dropped like a sack of stone.

Standing in the dark alleyway, rain soaking his black velvet tuxedo, holding a smoking pistol in his right hand, was Damian Moretti.

He looked like a nightmare rising from the shadows.

He dropped the unconscious man to the ground and stepped toward Evelyn.

His gray eyes swept over her—checking her pale face, her soaked clothes, the dark mud on her trousers.

“Did he touch you?” Damian asked, his voice lower and more lethal than she had ever heard it.

Evelyn shook her head, her knees suddenly trembling so hard she couldn't keep her balance. “N-no. I hit him with the thermos.”

Damian paused, a sudden, blinding flash of pride lighting up his dark eyes.

He stepped close, holstering his gun, and reached out with both hands to wrap her cold, wet face in his warm palms. He pulled her against his chest, holding her tight while the rain poured over them both.

“Good girl,” he whispered against her wet hair, his heart hammering steadily against her cheek. “Brave girl.”