Part 2: She Punched New York's Most Feared Man to Save His Life—Then He Looked at the Person He Trusted Most

"Gun!" Lena screamed, throwing all her weight forward before Dmitri could tighten his grip.

She slammed sideways into Victor Romano just as a muffled crack shattered the fragile silence of the Grand Metropolitan ballroom. A bullet tore through the fabric of Victor’s left shoulder, grazing skin and splintering the mahogany pillar behind him. Plaster rained down like chalk dust.

The room erupted into absolute hysteria.

High-society patrons scrambled across shattered crystal and overturned ice sculptures. Diamonds were trampled; silk gowns tore against gilded chairs. Women shrieked, and security personnel surged into the open space with weapons drawn.

Victor hit the marble floor, dragging Lena down beneath him. His body was an iron shield, entirely covering hers. Despite the hot smear of blood soaking through his bespoke suit, his breath remained steady, his pulse eerily slow against her cheek.

"Stay down," he commanded in a low, gravelly baritone that cut straight through the chaos.

Ten feet away, Leon Mercer didn't run. His face was twisted into a mask of pure fury. The silenced pistol in his hand was already leveling again, his target obscured by Victor’s bodyguards forming a frantic human barricade.

"Traitor!" Dmitri roared, pulling his sidearm.

Leon fired twice more into the crowd of guards, catching one man in the thigh, before throwing a smoke canister onto the polished floor. Thick, sulfurous gray fog billowed out instantly, blinding the chandeliers, choking the screams, and swallowing Leon’s retreat into the service corridors.

Dmitri lunged into the smoke, shouting tactical commands into his radio, while four other armed operatives surrounded Victor and Lena.

Victor rose, effortlessly pulling Lena to her feet by her forearm. His gaze never wavered from the smoke-filled hallway where his oldest friend had vanished. His jaw set into stone, every muscle in his neck coiled tight with lethal intent.

Clara Whitmore hurried over, her ice-blue gown pristine despite the blood on the floor. Her hands trembled, but her eyes were darting rapidly between Victor's bleeding shoulder and the terrified maid at his side.

"Victor! My God, you’re shot!" Clara cried, reaching toward him with manicured nails. "Call an ambulance! And get this filthy maid away from you—she caused this entire scene!"

Victor didn't look at Clara. He shrugged off her touch with a subtle, icy jerk of his arm.

Instead, his piercing dark eyes locked entirely onto Lena. The blood on his shoulder stained his white shirt a deep crimson, but his voice was dead calm.

"If she hadn't thrown that punch," Victor said quietly, "I would be dead on this floor from poison. If she hadn't screamed, I would have a bullet through my skull."

He stepped closer to Lena, his large frame towering over her. "Who are you, really?"