He abandoned his wife at O’Hare to fly first class with his childhood ex, completely unaware she was boarding a flight to a new country without him.

"Down!"

Julian’s voice was a violent bark that broke through my paralysis a split second before the world detonated.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mayfair gallery shattered inward in a tidal wave of tempered glass and leaded frames. The sound of automatic gunfire was deafening, a relentless, concussive rhythm that shredded the centuries-old oil paintings, splintered the gilded antique furniture, and sent plaster dust cascading from the ceiling like a blizzard.

Julian grabbed my arm, yanking me behind a structural marble pillar as bullets chewed through the oak floorboards mere inches from where my feet had been.

"Volkov's men," Julian coughed through the white dust, pulling a compact semi-automatic pistol from a custom holster inside his waistband. "They aren't trying to capture you. They’re trying to send a message to Adrian over your corpse!"

Outside, the gunfire suddenly shifted.

The heavy, rhythmic chattering of the submachine guns was interrupted by the thunderous roar of high-caliber handguns and the screech of tires.

I risked a glance past the shattered frame of the pillar.

Adrian had not taken cover.

He was moving across the wet street like a predator born in the dark, his face a terrifying mask of homicidal rage. In his right hand, a matte-black customized SIG Sauer spit controlled, lethal fire. Behind him, two of his personal operatives who had been trailing him moved in tactical formation, flanking the gray van with terrifying efficiency.

A bullet caught the van’s shooter in the chest, folding him backward into the vehicle. Another shooter tried to swing his muzzle toward Adrian, but Adrian didn't flinch, didn't duck. He stepped directly into the line of fire, firing twice through the van's windshield. The glass spiderwebbed with crimson spray as the driver slumped over the steering wheel, his dead weight triggering the horn in a flat, unending blare.

The third gunman leaped from the sliding door, rolling onto the pavement and aiming directly through the broken gallery window toward my hiding spot.

"Claire!" Adrian's roar was guttural, inhuman.

The shooter squeezed the trigger, but before the burst could rake my position, Adrian closed the distance. He didn't fire; he threw his entire two-hundred-pound frame into the man, tackling him onto the wet asphalt with sickening force. The sickening crack of bone echoed off the Mayfair brownstones as Adrian slammed the man’s skull into the curb, once, twice, until the body went limp.

The street fell into an eerie, ringing silence, punctuated only by the dying whine of the van's horn and the steady patter of London rain.

Adrian stood up slowly, his hands covered in blood, rain dripping from his chin. His chest rose and fell in violent, ragged gasps.

He turned toward the shattered window.

His eyes swept over the wreckage, frantic, unhinged, searching through the drifting clouds of plaster dust. When his gaze finally landed on me—standing behind the pillar, covered in white dust, Julian Thorne’s hand firmly on my shoulder—Adrian’s knees visibly buckled.

"Claire," he choked out, taking a stumbling step toward the broken glass.

"Stay back, Mr. Moretti," Julian’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. He stepped in front of me, his pistol held in a low, disciplined retention stance. "The Metropolitan Police armed response unit will be here in two minutes. If you cross that threshold, you will be arrested on British soil for syndicate violence."

Adrian didn't even look at Julian. He looked only at me. His hands, which had just snuffed out two lives without a tremor, were shaking uncontrollably.

"Claire... are you hurt?" he asked, his voice cracking, thick with an agonizing terror that stripped away every ounce of his arrogance. "Tell me you're not hurt. Please."

I stepped out from behind Julian, the glass crunching sharply beneath my leather boots. I looked at the man who had been my husband, the man who had traded my dignity for Sophia's comfort, the man who brought blood and chaos wherever he walked.

"I’m fine, Adrian," I said, my voice steady, devoid of warmth. "No thanks to you."

"I killed them," Adrian stammered, stepping onto the shards of glass, ignoring Julian’s leveled weapon. "They’re dead, Claire. You’re safe. I will burn the Volkov family to the ground. I will erase them from the earth for even looking at you—"

"You didn't save me from them, Adrian," I interrupted, staring into his hollow, blood-splattered face. "You brought them to me. The day you decided to leave me at O’Hare, you stripped off my armor and painted a target on my back. This isn't their fault. This is yours."