Vanessa vile enough to strike an expectant woman across the face at her mother’s resting place and grind a cherished heirloom into the mud just to flaunt her aristocratic malice

"Report!" Damon roared, his deep voice cutting through the blaring alarms as the penthouse shuddered.

Silas pressed his earpiece, his face turning grim. "Boss! It’s the subterranean garage. A tactical team just breached the lower levels. They blew the reinforced security doors. The armored transports are trapped down there!"

"Caldwell didn't wait for the warrants," Damon deduced, his jaw locking into a rigid line. His cold, intimidating eyes swept the room. The Senator had bypassed the legal channels entirely, sending a black-ops hit squad to assassinate the Mafia Boss and the pregnant maid before the truth could ever reach the public.

"They're taking the service elevators up," another bodyguard shouted, aiming his assault rifle toward the heavy oak doors of the penthouse. "We have maybe three minutes before they reach this floor."

The bright, airy cinematic colors of the penthouse felt suddenly like a brightly lit kill box. There was no escape from the top floor without the elevators.

Grace gasped, clutching her stomach in pure terror. "Damon... they're going to kill the baby."

"No one is touching you," Damon swore, grabbing her hand and pulling her behind the thick, marble kitchen island. He drew his own heavy, suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster. The handsome movie-star facade was entirely gone, replaced by the veteran warlord who had built an empire on blood and bone.

"Silas," Damon commanded, his voice dead calm amidst the chaos. "Blow the stairwell access. Force them into the main elevator bank."

"Setting charges now!" Silas yelled, throwing a block of C4 toward the emergency exit doors.

Damon turned to Grace, his expression intense and fiercely protective. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted keycard, pressing it into her trembling hand.

"Behind the bookcase in the master bedroom, there is a reinforced panic room. It has an independent ventilation system and reinforced steel plating," Damon instructed rapidly, his eyes burning into hers. "You go in there. You swipe this card. The door will seal. You do not open it, no matter what you hear out here. Do you understand me, Grace?"

"I'm not leaving you!" Grace cried, clinging to his tailored suit.

"You are protecting our child!" Damon yelled, his deeply masculine voice vibrating with absolute authority. He softened instantly, pressing a hard, desperate kiss to her forehead. "I will come for you when it is done. Go. Now!"

He shoved her gently toward the hallway. Grace stumbled, her flats slipping slightly on the hardwood, but she caught her balance and ran toward the bedroom, her hand clutching her belly.

Damon turned back to face the main elevator bank. His men had formed a tight, lethal half-circle, their weapons raised and aimed at the brushed steel doors. The digital floor indicator above the elevators was climbing rapidly.

38... 39... 40.

"Hold the line," Damon commanded, raising his pistol, his fair, rosy skin bathed in the bright, natural light pouring through the windows. "Make them bleed for every inch."

41... 42.

The elevator chime echoed with a cheerful, sickeningly polite ding.

The brushed steel doors began to slide open. Damon’s eyes narrowed, his finger tightening on the trigger as the shadows of heavily armed men appeared in the gap, the promise of an apocalyptic firefight hanging heavily in the bright, clean air.