Two tequila shots into my twenty-sixth birthday, I poked Boston’s most feared crime boss in the chest twice and watched an entire nightclub go silent. Less than a minute later, a bullet hit the pillar where my head had been, Matteo Conti threw me over his shoulder, and my miserable birthday shift became a fight to stay alive.

The force of the blast threw me backward, but Matteo moved with terrifying instinct.

He tackled me to the ground, shielding my body with his own as heavy glass and stone debris rained down from the ceiling. The smell of sulfur, smoke, and burning brick instantly filled the room.

"Luca!" Matteo roared into his tactical radio, pulling me up by my arm and shoving me into the reinforced bathroom corridor.

"Breach at the north gate, Boss!" Luca’s panicked voice crackled through the speaker over the sound of intense automatic gunfire. "Falcone’s men brought heavy explosive charges! They’ve breached the outer wall! We have twelve hostiles inside the courtyard!"

Matteo pulled two weapons from his waistband, handing a compact snub-nosed revolver to me.

"Do you know how to use this?" he demanded, his eyes locked on mine.

"No!" I yelled over the deafening sound of gunfire echoing from the floor below.

"Point it at anyone who isn't me or Luca and pull the trigger until it stops clicking," Matteo ordered flatly. "Stay behind me!"

We moved out of the suite into the upper gallery corridor.

Below us, in the grand marble foyer, the estate’s security detail was locked in a brutal fire fight with eight men in heavy tactical gear bearing the red snake emblem of the Falcone syndicate.

Plaster blew off the walls, priceless paintings were shredded by bullets, and the air was thick with blinding white smoke.

"Up the stairs! Secure the girl!" one of the attackers shouted in a heavy Italian accent.

Three operatives began charging up the grand marble staircase, weapons raised.

Matteo stepped out from behind a stone pillar, his weapons roaring in rhythmic, lethal precision.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The lead operative’s head snapped back, his body tumbling backward down the stairs, taking the second man with him. The third operative scrambled behind a marble statue, firing a burst of automatic rounds that chipped the stone pillar inches from Matteo’s face.

I crouched behind the oak balustrade, my heart hammering like a trapped bird, gripping the heavy iron revolver with both hands.

Suddenly, a heavy boot slammed against the side door behind us.

A burly Falcone operative breached the upper corridor from the service stairwell, his rifle aimed directly at Matteo’s exposed back.

"Matteo, look out!" I screamed.

The operative swung his weapon toward me instead.

Without thinking, driven by pure survival instinct, I raised the silver revolver, shut my eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

BANG!

The recoil slammed into my wrists, sending a shockwave up my arms.

When I opened my eyes, the operative was clutching his shoulder, stumbling backward into the drywall.

Matteo turned like a lightning strike, finishing the operative with a single round to the chest before lunging toward me, pulling me hard into his arms against the brick wall.

He looked down at me, his face covered in soot, a small cut bleeding near his temple, his dark eyes wide with shock.

"You shot him," Matteo gasped, a breathless, wild laugh escaping his lips.

"I told you I was tired of being pushed around," I panted, clutching his shirt tightly.