The last nanny came flying down the marble steps of Crossmoor House with one shoe in her hand, rain in her hair, and terror stripped across her face like she had just escaped a burning church. She nearly crashed into Mara Ellison beneath the stone portico, caught herself on a carved lion, and stared at Mara as if she were watching a woman step willingly into a grave.

"Get down!" Damon roared.

Before Mara could even process what was happening, Damon lunged forward, grabbing her by the waist and tackling her off the raised podium just as a second high-velocity bullet buried itself deep into the gilded mirror where her head had been a second before.

Madame Dupond shrieked, diving behind an antique velvet counter.

Alarms wailed in the distance. The streets outside erupted into chaotic shouting as pedestrians scattered for cover.

Mara pressed her face hard against the hardwood floor beneath Damon’s heavy, muscular chest. She could feel his heart hammering—not with fear, but with cold, calculated adrenaline. His hand was tucked firmly around the back of her neck, shielding her body with his own.

"Damon—" she gasped.

"Stay down," he hissed, his eyes darting toward the shattered storefront window. He reached inside his cashmere blazer with his free hand, his fingers wrapping around the grip of a sleek, matte-black Glock 19 hidden in a shoulder holster.

So the rumors were true, Mara thought, her breath catching in her throat. The King of the Gulf didn't just run logistics and old family money; he lived in the crosshairs of a very real, very bloody underworld war.

"Was that... was that Bryce?" Mara whispered against his chest, her fingers clutching the lapel of his blazer.

"No," Damon said, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Bryce Caldwell is a coward who pays process servers, not snipers. This was someone else. Someone who just found out the King of the Gulf is taking a bride—and wants to send a wedding present."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder by the second, their red and blue lights flashing wildly through the broken storefront window.

Damon didn't flinch. He slowly eased off Mara, helping her to her feet while keeping his weapon drawn and his body positioned between her and the street.

"Are you hit?" he asked, his gray eyes scanning her over with frantic intensity.

"No," Mara breathed, brushing shattered glass off the hem of the designer wedding dress. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, but beneath the shock, a cold, hard anger began to take root. Someone had tried to kill her—or kill Damon—right in the middle of New Orleans in broad daylight.

"We're leaving," Damon said, grabbing her hand with a grip that left no room for argument. "Now."

"My clothes—"

"Forget the clothes. I'll buy the damn salon if I have to."

He bundled her out the rear service exit of House of Vance into the armored, bulletproof black Escalade idling in the alleyway. Security guards in dark suits piled into the front seat, and within seconds, they were tearing down the interstate toward Crossmoor House at ninety miles an hour.

As the Baton Rouge skyline faded in the rear window, Mara looked down at her hand. The heavy diamond engagement ring glittered under the interior lights of the SUV.