I hid a shattered forearm beneath my silk opera glove at a press shoot, knowing if my mob boss husband knew I took a hit meant for him, he'd burn the city to ashes.

The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was an ocean of black tuxedos, shimmering couture gowns, and predatory eyes.

Two hundred members of the city’s criminal, financial, and political elite mingled beneath towering Roman arches, sipping vintage champagne while string quartets played Vivaldi from the mezzanine. To the outside observer, it was a high-society charity gala; to those inside the perimeter, it was an armed truce between five warring dynasties.

Dominic and Clara entered through the grand rotunda, moving through the crowd like royalty through an occupied province.

Clara held her chin high. Every step sent a dull, vibrating ache through her left arm, but the heavy velvet sleeve masked every hint of the fiberglass beneath. She smiled, nodded at state senators and syndicate capos, and leaned into Dominic’s side with the practiced, radiant elegance she had perfected over a decade.

Across the marble floor, standing near the marble statue of Perseus, was Salvatore Falco.

The seventy-year-old patriarch of the Falco syndicate was a silver-haired, hawk-faced man with cold blue eyes that had seen forty years of bloodshed. Standing beside him was Leo Navarro, laughing jovially, swirling a glass of bourbon as if they were lifelong friends discussing real estate.

“Look at him,” Clara whispered, her lips barely moving. “He’s standing with the man he’s about to assassinate.”

“A Judas always kisses his target first,” Dominic murmured back. “Stay close to me, Clara. Do not wander.”

As they approached, Leo turned, his eyes widening slightly as he took in Clara’s appearance. His gaze dropped immediately to her left arm, lingering on the voluminous velvet sleeve with an intense, calculating curiosity.

“Clara! Dominic!” Leo beamed, opening his arms wide in an expansive, theatrical greeting. “You made it! Clara, my dear, you look utterly breathtaking. The velvet is sublime.”

“Thank you, Leo,” Clara said smoothly, extending her right hand for him to clasp. “I felt a sudden need for dramatic fabric tonight.”

Salvatore Falco turned his cold gaze upon Dominic. The tension between the two mob bosses was instantaneous, a drop in atmospheric pressure that caused the surrounding conversation to drop an octave.

“Carretti,” Falco said, his voice raspy as dry leaves.

“Falco,” Dominic acknowledged with a polite, razor-sharp nod. “I trust your shipping routes through the canal remain orderly?”

Falco’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Orderly enough, Carretti. Despite certain… disturbances earlier this week. Some people in this town seem eager to test my patience.”

“Patience is a virtue only the living can afford,” Dominic replied, his voice completely level.

Leo laughed, a high, nervous sound that cut through the tension. “Now, now, gentlemen! We are here to celebrate our cultural heritage tonight, not argue over shipping manifests. Salvatore, the terrace has been cleared for our private discussion regarding the northern boundary lines. It’s 10:25. Shall we step outside before the speeches begin?”

Falco checked his gold pocket watch, then nodded slowly. “Ten minutes, Navarro. That’s all the cold air my lungs can take.”

Leo turned to Dominic, an unholy, suppressed excitement gleaming in the depths of his dark eyes. “Dominic, come with us. Clara, you’ll excuse us for a moment, won't you? A little family business under the stars.”

Clara felt her heart violently hammer against her ribs. This was the moment. The trap was springing.

Dominic looked down at her, his expression unreadable, and gently squeezed her right hand. “Of course. Clara, wait by the fountain. I will return shortly.”

Dominic, Leo, and Salvatore Falco moved toward the heavy, glass-paned terrace doors overlooking the dark, mist-shrouded museum gardens. Two of Falco’s personal bodyguards fell in behind them, their hands tucked inside their tailored jackets.

Clara walked toward the fountain as instructed, her earpiece humming with static.

Then, through the tiny receiver, Dominic’s voice clicked through the encrypted frequency, spoken into a hidden lapel mic: