The question hung in the stale, blood-scented air of my apartment, heavy with the weight of a dozen different execution styles.

Through the haze, three figures in black tactical gear surged across the threshold, weapons raised, sweeping the room with laser sights that cut jagged red lines through the gloom.

They didn't expect resistance. They certainly didn't expect a bleeding mafia boss and a former nursing student wielding a kitchen meat mallet to be waiting for them.

Roman fired twice before the lead operator could level his submachine gun. The suppressed cracks of the Walther were sharp and lethal; the first intruder dropped instantly, a clean round through his ceramic trauma plate sending him crashing backward into the hallway wall.

“Left!” I screamed, my voice cutting through the ringing in my ears as a second gunman pivoted toward Roman’s blind side.

Without thinking, I hurled the heavy stainless-steel meat mallet across the room. It caught the second operative squarely in the side of his tactical helmet with a resounding CLANG, throwing his aim off just enough for his submachine gun to stitch a row of harmless bullet holes across my acoustic ceiling tiles.

Roman didn't miss a beat. He spun, driving the butt of his pistol into the man’s jaw with bone-crunching force, sending him sprawling over the splintered remains of the kitchen table.

The third operative lunged through the smoke, his combat knife flashing in the dim amber light of the streetlamp. He bypassed Roman entirely, recognizing that the boss was injured, and charged straight at me with lethal intent.

Panic flashed through my chest, but years of working double shifts on San Francisco’s rough waterfront had taught me one vital truth: never back down from a predator who thinks you’re weak.

As the knife slashed downward toward my throat, I ducked beneath the arc of the blade, stepping directly inside his guard—a move I remembered from an old self-defense elective I’d audited in college. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, twisted downward with every ounce of my body weight, and drove my knee upward into his groin with unbridled fury.

The man let out a high-pitched, strangled shriek, dropping his knife as he doubled over.

Before he could recover, Roman was there. He grabbed the back of the operative’s tactical vest, slammed his head against the kitchen counter with a sickening thud, and let the man crumple unconscious to the floor.

Silence rushed back into the apartment, broken only by the ragged, heavy breathing of the two of us standing amidst the wreckage.

I stood frozen, my hands shaking uncontrollably, staring down at the three fallen men scattered across my ruined living room. My gray sweatpants were stained with soot, plaster dust, and now a fresh splatter of oil and gunpowder.

Roman slowly lowered his pistol, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He pressed his left hand hard against his side, his face turning an alarming shade of pale as fresh blood began to seep through the white gauze beneath my black hoodie.

“Roman,” I breathed, dropping to my knees beside him as he swayed and sank heavily onto the floor, leaning back against the shattered remains of the sofa. “Your stitches... they’ve blown open.”

Roman looked down at his side, then slowly raised his dark eyes to meet mine. Despite the blood, the smoke, and the imminent threat of more assassins on their way, a faint, exhausted smile touched his lips.

“You fight dirty, Nora,” he rasped, coughing softly. “I love it.”

“Shut up and don't die on my rug again, or I swear I’ll resurrect you just to kill you myself,” I snapped, my voice trembling as I ripped open my emergency medical kit with bloody fingers.

As I pressed fresh gauze against his bleeding side, Roman reached out, his warm, heavy hand closing firmly around my wrist, stopping my movements.

“They won't send hit squads anymore,” Roman whispered, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that burned through the chaos around us. “Once these three fail, the person who ordered this hit will have to come themselves.”

“Who?” I demanded, pressing hard against the wound to stem the flow. “Who could possibly have enough power to send an elite strike team after you?”