Chapter 1 - The Weight of a SecondTime didn't slow down; it shattered.
The waiter—Leo, a ghost from an underground firefight six months ago whose torn shoulder I had stitched back together without anesthesia—didn’t hesitate when my fingers clamped onto Damian’s sleeve. The silver tray tilted. Sunlight refracting through the crystal champagne flutes splintered into blinding shards across the marble floor.
Underneath the pristine white cloth draped over his forearm, the steel barrel of a suppressed Glock cleared leather with terrifying speed.
I didn't think. I reacted with the frantic, raw instinct of someone who spent her nights dodging stray iron in ER bays. I shoved Damian hard to the side.
Crack.
The suppressed gunshot didn't sound like a cinematic explosion; it was a heavy, wet thud that punched through the air, chewing a lethal hole right through the space Damian’s heart had occupied a fraction of a second before.
Instantly, the ballroom transformed from a shimmering sea of elite polite society into a slaughterhouse of screaming silk and scattering diamonds. Congressman Hale hit the floor, spilling his martini. Crystal chandeliers rattled as panic surged like a tidal wave.
Before Leo could reset his sights for a secondary arc toward my chest, Damian moved.
To call him fast was an insult to physics. In one fluid, brutal motion that defied his tailored three-piece suit, Boston’s most feared developer dropped his center of gravity, drew a customized Sig Sauer P320 from his shoulder holster, and fired twice.
The first round caught Leo in the right wrist, snapping bone and sending the Glock clattering across the polish. The second took him clean through the thigh, dropping the assassin instantly.
Blood pooled fast against the pristine white marble. Leo gasped, choking on his own defiance as his head lolled back.
The heavy oak ballroom doors slammed open from the outside. Four of Damian’s personal detail—men built like brick walls and wearing earpieces—poured in, weapons drawn, scanning every sector.
"Boss!" the lead guard, a scarred veteran named Miller, roared, his weapon tracking the terrified crowd. "Are you hit?"
Damian didn't look down at the bleeding assassin. He didn't look at the screaming politicians crawling beneath tables. His dark, storm-gray eyes were locked entirely on me.
His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling beneath his vest. He reached out, his massive hand wrapping around my upper arm. His grip was iron-tight, grounding, possessive.
"Are you hurt?" Damian demanded, his voice dropping an octave into a low, terrifying growl.
"I—no," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My hands were shaking, the adrenaline crash finally starting to pool in my stomach.
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Damian pulled me flush against his chest, completely shielding me from the rest of the room. He looked down at Leo, who was groaning on the floor, bleeding out.
"Don't let him die," Damian commanded Miller, his eyes never leaving my face. "Keep him alive long enough for me to find out who let a ghost into my building."
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