Holly Mercer drew the linen napkin aside from seven-year-old Finn's lap

The deafening barrage of gunfire outside the mansion escalated into a continuous, thunderous roar, shaking the gilded moldings of the luxurious estate. The cascading crystal chandeliers flickered ominously, casting erratic, strobe-like light across the marble floors. Quentin moved through the chaos with terrifying, lethal precision, his assault rifle raised, his broad shoulders squared against the incoming assault.

"Are they breaching the eastern wall?" Quentin yelled over the comms, taking cover behind a heavy stone pillar as a spray of bullets shattered a priceless antique vase nearby.

"They used shaped charges, Boss!" a guard replied through the radio static. "We are holding them at the courtyard, but they have heavy suppression fire!"

In the private west wing, the sounds of the battle were muffled but unmistakably terrifying. Holly sat on the floor of the nursery, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. She held a heavy brass candlestick she had taken from the mantle, her knuckles white. Finn remained fast asleep, entirely exhausted, oblivious to the fact that an army of mafia hitmen were trying to burn his house down.

Holly’s sophisticated black maid dress was covered in dust that had shaken loose from the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for the imposing mafia boss who had promised to protect them.

Suddenly, the handle of the bedroom door rattled violently.

Holly gasped, scrambling backward, raising the heavy brass candlestick. "Who is it?" she cried out, her voice shaking.

"Are you unharmed, Holly?" Quentin's deep, unmistakable voice filtered through the heavy wood.

Holly sobbed in relief, immediately throwing the deadbolt and pulling the door open.

Quentin stepped into the room. He looked like a god of war. His crisp white shirt was stained with soot and blood, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular, tattooed arms. The extremely short stubble on his jawline was dark with ash, and a nasty cut ran across his high-bridged nose. Yet, his posture remained unbowed, and his cold, perceptive eyes swept the room instantly, finding her in the dim light.

"You're bleeding," Holly gasped, dropping the candlestick and rushing toward him.

"Is a little blood not the cost of cleaning house?" Quentin asked, catching her by the waist as she collided with his chest. His large, tattooed hand came up to rest gently on the back of her head, holding her close. The smell of gunpowder and expensive cologne enveloped her.

"Is it over?" Holly whispered against his chest, terrified of the answer.

"Do you believe the Ashford family will ever pose a threat to us again?" Quentin inquired, stepping back slightly to look down into her face. "Victor is dead. His remaining men surrendered when they realized they were completely surrounded by my tactical teams."

Holly swallowed hard, the brutal reality of the mafia world crashing over her. She had started a war, and Quentin had finished it. "And Bianca?"

"Will you accompany me to the cellar to conclude that piece of business tomorrow?" Quentin asked, a dark, unforgiving shadow crossing his eyes.

Before she could answer, a loud crash echoed from the hallway outside the nursery.

Marcus stumbled into the doorway, out of breath, his scarred face tight with fresh tension. "Boss, we have a major problem. It wasn't just the Ashfords out there. Someone opened the service gate from the inside."

Quentin’s posture instantly shifted back to absolute, rigid alert. "Did they infiltrate the house?"

"Two men slipped past the perimeter," Marcus grunted, raising his weapon. "They are in the west wing corridors right now."

Quentin looked down at Holly. The danger was not over; it had breached their sanctuary.

"Will you keep him safe for me?" Quentin asked, pulling a heavy, suppressed pistol from his holster and pressing it firmly into Holly's trembling hands.