My beat-up 1998 Honda Civic died three feet from the gates of a mafia boss’s mansion, and somehow that wasn’t the worst thing that happened that day. Twenty minutes later, I was standing over Desmond Gallagher, the most feared man I’d ever met, pulling the blanket off his paralyzed legs while his hand crushed my wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

The heavy brass base of the lamp struck Julian square across the back of his knees.

The blow landed with a dull, sickening crack.

Julian shrieked in shock and pain, his legs buckling instantly beneath him as he crashed face-first onto the Persian rug, dropping his hunting knife.

"Maya!" Desmond shouted.

Before Julian could recover or reach for his dropped blade, Desmond did something that made my breath lock in my throat.

He didn't fire his gun.

Desmond planted his left hand onto the armrest of his wheelchair, leaned his weight forward, and stood up.

His legs shook violently, his knees locking into place through sheer, unadulterated strength of will. His massive six-foot-four frame towered over his fallen brother like a titan rising from a grave. His face was a mask of agonizing effort, sweat pouring down his temples as his reconnected nervous system screamed in agony under the sudden load of his weight.

He took one heavy, deliberate, crushing step forward.

He brought his heavy leather boot down onto Julian’s right wrist.

Julian let out a blood-curdling scream as his wrist bones shattered beneath Desmond’s weight. The hunting knife spun harmlessly across the floorboards toward my feet.

Desmond bent down, grabbing Julian by his hair with his left hand, and hoisted his brother off the floor until Julian was dangling on his tiptoes, choking for air.

"You forgot one detail, brother," Desmond growled, his voice vibrating through the entire study like thunder. "I never broke."

Julian stared at Desmond in absolute, wide-eyed terror. His hands clawed uselessly at Desmond’s iron grip, his face turning blue as he looked into the eyes of a man he believed was a helpless invalid.

"Desmond... please..." Julian choked out, his arrogance completely shattered. "We're... blood..."

"Blood doesn't make you family, Julian," Desmond said softly. "Loyalty does."

Desmond drove his right fist into Julian’s jaw with a sickening, heavy thud. Julian’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his head as he went completely limp. Desmond let go of his collar, allowing his brother’s unconscious body to drop onto the floor like a sack of wet concrete.

The moment Julian hit the rug, Desmond’s strength gave out.

His right knee buckled, his center of gravity shifting rapidly toward the hard edge of the mahogany desk.

I dropped the brass lamp and lunged forward, catching him around his waist before he could slam into the floor.

"I got you," I gasped, taking the brunt of his massive frame against my shoulders. "I got you, Desmond. Hold on."

His heavy arm wrapped around my neck, anchoring him against me as we sank together onto the plush velvet sofa near the window. He was breathing in heavy, ragged gulps, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped beast. His legs were shaking violently, the involuntary spasms returning with double the intensity after the sudden, massive exertion.

"You... you hit him with a lamp," Desmond rasped, looking down at me through wet, dark lashes, a faint, disbelieving smirk touching the corner of his lips.

"It was the heaviest thing within arm's reach," I panted, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my sleeve. "And for the record, your physical therapist is going to be furious when I tell them you did an unassisted stand-and-pivot on a fractured ankle line."

Desmond let out a low, deep chuckle that turned into a sudden groan as another spasm hit his thigh. "You really are... a terrible nurse, Maya."

"I'm a great nurse," I corrected, reaching over to grip his shaking knee, applying firm, steady pressure to quiet the firing nerves. "I just happen to work for a lunatic."

Suddenly, the heavy steel security grilles at the end of the corridor vibrated with three heavy, rhythmic thuds.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

A low, mechanical hum echoed through the walls as the perimeter grilles were manually overridden from the outside, slowly rising up into the ceiling.

Four men in identical black tactical gear stepped into the study, carrying silenced submachine guns. They moved with absolute, silent precision, clearing the room in two seconds before their leader—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a military haircut—stepped forward and lowered his weapon.

"Don Desmond," the leader said, bowing his head slightly. "The perimeter is secure. We have secured the guards at the main gatehouse and extracted Frankie from the basement. He has a dislocated shoulder, but he is breathing."

Desmond relaxed against the sofa cushions, his heavy hand resting over mine where I was still holding his knee.

"Clean up this mess, Marcus," Desmond ordered, gesturing toward his unconscious brother on the floor. "Put Julian in the holding cell beneath the boathouse. I'll deal with him in the morning."

"Understood, sir," Marcus bowed, gesturing for his men to haul Julian away.

Marcus turned his attention to me, his sharp eyes taking in my blood-stained scrubs, my messy hair, and the way Desmond’s hand was resting protectively over mine.

"And the lady, Don Desmond?" Marcus asked respectfully. "Should I call an escort to take her home?"