“Dance As My Husband—There’s a Red Dot on Your For…

“Dance As My Husband—There’s a Red Dot on Your Forehead,” She Whispered to the Mafia Boss…

“Dance with me. Right now. Somebody has a rifle laser on your forehead.” I whispered those words to Gabriel Russo in the middle of a Manhattan charity gala, grabbed the most feared man in New York like he belonged to me, and dragged him into a waltz seconds before a bullet tore through the window behind us. By midnight, I would discover the assassination had been funded through Gabriel’s own companies, his oldest allies had sold him out, his sister had secretly hired me to keep him alive, and a security camera hidden above a hotel laundry room had captured the one betrayal nobody could explain away. I was paid to protect Gabriel Russo. I never expected to become the woman who destroyed half his empire to save the other half.

PART 1 — One whispered warning turns a glittering gala into open warfare.

“Dance with me. Now. Somebody’s painting your forehead with a rifle laser.”

Gabriel Russo stared at me like I had just slapped him.

Which, considering who he was, might actually have been safer.

The orchestra was playing something expensive and forgettable. Violins. Piano. A room full of Manhattan donors pretending they weren’t checking each other’s watches.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Midtown glittered beneath an October sky.

Inside, Gabriel had maybe four seconds left.

I grabbed his shoulder.

Hard.

His security man moved toward me.

Gabriel’s hand disappeared beneath his tuxedo jacket.

“Don’t,” I said.

His eyes narrowed.

Then the red dot touched the bridge of his nose.

That convinced him.

I pulled him against me.

To everybody else, we probably looked like two overdressed strangers making a terrible romantic decision after too much champagne.

Good.

“Move,” I whispered.

“I don’t dance on command.”

“Tonight you do.”

His mouth tightened.

Arrogant bastard.

I turned us sharply.

The red dot slid from his temple, crossed my cheek, and jumped onto a marble column.

Gabriel finally understood.

His hand settled at my lower back.

Not gently.

“Who are you?”

“The reason you still have a face.”

“Cute.”

“Spin me.”

He did.

Badly.

For a man who controlled half the waterfront and could supposedly make judges stop returning phone calls, Gabriel Russo danced like a linebacker being forced into a middle-school musical.

“Try not to step on my dress,” I muttered.

“This conversation is getting expensive.”

“My dress cost more than your first car.”

“My first car was a Ferrari.”

Of course it was.

Then my earpiece crackled.

“Madeline,” Jackson said. “Shooter adjusting.”

Three words.

That was all I needed.

I caught Gabriel by the lapels.

“Dip me.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You have two seconds.”

He dipped me.

The window exploded.

Not shattered.

Exploded.

A violent crack punched through the music, and a spray of safety glass burst across the ballroom.

A man near the bar dropped.

Someone screamed.

Then everyone screamed.

Champagne glasses hit the floor.

A woman in silver heels crawled beneath a table.

Two hedge-fund guys who had spent the previous hour bragging about private jets nearly killed each other trying to reach the same exit.

Gabriel hauled me upright.

His gun appeared in his hand.

Fast.

Very fast.

“Down!”

I slammed into him as another impact blew apart a chandelier.

Crystal rained over us.

We hit the carpet behind a catering station.

My shoulder screamed.

My $9,800 gown was officially dead.

Gabriel looked at me.

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

“You knew.”

“If I knew exactly what was going to happen, I would’ve worn pants.”

Across the ballroom, his men were forming a defensive line around the VIP elevators.

Exactly where the attackers wanted them.

I saw the service doors open.

Four catering employees entered.

Except they weren’t catering employees.

Their trays were gone.

Their hands weren’t empty.

“Gabriel.”

He followed my eyes.

His expression changed.

The socialite vanished.

The man underneath arrived.

Cold.

Focused.

Terrifyingly calm.

“They’re funneling you,” I said. “Your men push you toward those elevators, the second team closes the doors, and you become a very expensive corpse.”

He looked at me.

“And I’m supposed to trust a stranger who somehow knew where the shooter was?”

“No.”

I pointed toward the kitchen.

“You’re supposed to stay alive long enough to hate me later.”

One of the fake waiters raised his weapon.

Gabriel fired.

The man dropped behind a table.

I ran.

Not toward the elevators.

Toward the kitchen.

Gabriel cursed behind me and followed.

We crashed through the swinging doors into steam, stainless steel, and abandoned dinner plates.

A pot boiled over on a commercial stove.

Garlic burned in a skillet.

Somebody had dropped half a roast beef sandwich beside the dishwasher.

That stupid sandwich is what I remember.

Not the gunfire.

Not the screaming.

Brown mustard soaking into white bread.

Normal life sitting there while the room outside turned into hell.

“Fire stairs,” Gabriel said.

“No. Shooter can see the alley.”

“My vehicles?”

“Compromised until proven otherwise.”

He gave me a look.

“You have an answer for everything.”

“That’s why people hire me.”

“Who hired you?”

“Later.”

The kitchen doors slammed open behind us.

I shoved a stainless-steel cart into the entrance.

The first attacker crashed into it.

Gabriel reacted before I did.

Two sharp shots.