The smoke from the burning balcony curtains billowed into the high-ceilinged bedroom, carrying the sharp stench of cordite, singed velvet, and old blood.

"Don't move, Duca!" Corvo screeched, tightening his grip on my hair. "I walk out of here with the girl, or we both die right now!"

Pain radiated down my scalp, but something inside me—something ancient, buried under twenty years of submission and insecurity—snapped.

All my life, people had looked at my plain face, my simple clothes, and my quiet demeanor and assumed I was weak. Marcus, the local loan shark, had threatened me. The high-society women at the wedding had mocked me. And now Corvo was using me like a bargaining chip.

I am a Valente, a voice whispered in the back of my brain. And Valentes do not die on their knees.

I didn't wait for Roman to shoot.

I reached up, grabbed Corvo’s gun wrist with both hands, and slammed my heavy silk-wrapped heel down onto his foot with all the force I could muster.

Corvo howled in pain, his aim slipping for a split second.

I drove my elbow backward into his ribs.

BANG!

Corvo’s gun went off, the bullet grazing my thigh, tearing through my dress. But the distraction was all Roman needed.

Roman closed the twenty-foot distance in less than two seconds. He tackled Corvo away from me, the two men crashing into a stack of heavy wooden wine crates. Bottles shattered, spilling dark red wine across the stone floor like a river of blood.

I hit the ground hard, my injured thigh burning.

Viktor rushed forward, pulling me behind a pillar as Roman and Corvo fought on the floor.

Corvo was older, but he fought with the viciousness of a cornered rat, slashing at Roman’s face with a hidden blade. The knife caught Roman across the cheek, leaving a deep, bleeding gash.

Roman didn't even flinch. He grabbed Corvo’s wrist, twisted it until the bone snapped with a sickening CRACK, and slammed his fist into Corvo’s jaw.

Corvo slumped against the broken wine crates, gasping for air, spitting blood onto the stone.

Roman stood over him, breathing heavily, his white shirt soaked in wine and blood. He picked up his gun from the floor, pulled back the slide, and pointed it at Corvo’s forehead.

"Roman! Wait!" I cried out, dragging myself forward despite the pain in my leg. "Don't!"

Roman looked at me, his eyes wild, his jaw tight. "He tried to kill you, Clara. He ordered the murder of your entire family."

"I know!" I yelled, reaching his side, grabbing his gun hand. "I know! But if you kill him now, we learn nothing! He said the Council authorized this! If the Council wants me dead, killing Corvo won't stop them!"

Roman looked down at my hand holding his. He looked at the blood seeping through the tear in my wedding dress near my thigh.

His expression softened, the murderous rage receding just enough for reason to return.

"Viktor," Roman ordered coldly. "Tie Corvo to a chair in the interrogation cell. Call the private medical team to treat Clara. Secure the perimeter."

"Yes, Don Vance," Viktor said, moving swiftly with two guards.

Roman dropped his gun into his holster, bent down, and scooped me up into his arms before I could object.

"I can walk," I protested faintly, though my head was spinning from adrenaline loss.

"You have a bullet graze on your leg and glass in your hand," Roman said softly, stepping over the debris as he carried me back toward the stairs. "You aren't walking anywhere."

He carried me up through the smoke-cleared corridors, past the ruined ballroom where his security team was rounding up the remaining attackers, straight into his private medical wing on the third floor.

He set me down gently on an examination table. A female doctor rushed in with a medical kit, but Roman held up his hand.

"I'll clean the wound," Roman said.

"Boss, your cheek—" the doctor began.

"Clean my face later," Roman commanded. "Give me the antiseptic and bandages."

The doctor quickly handed him the supplies and stepped out, locking the door behind her.

Roman knelt in front of me, just as he had done in the bedroom earlier. His hands were covered in dust and dried blood, but as he reached out to lift the hem of my ruined wedding dress to inspect my thigh, his touch was impossibly gentle.

"It’s just a graze," he murmured, wiping away the blood with a damp cloth. "You were brave down there."

"I was terrified," I admitted, clutching the edge of the examination table.

Roman looked up, his dark gray eyes locking onto mine. The cut on his cheek was still bleeding, dropping a single bead of red down his sharp jawline.

"You took on a syndicate Don with a high heel," Roman said, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "You might be the most dangerous thing in this house, Clara."

"Roman," I whispered, reaching out to touch his face, my fingers gently brushing near his cut. "Why didn't you tell me about my mother? About why you really came to my shop?"

Roman stayed silent for a long moment, leaning into my touch slightly before speaking.

"Three weeks ago," he said quietly, "I received an anonymous letter containing a land deed for your mother’s tailor shop. The deed had a hidden clause—it was tied to an old Valente trust. I didn't know you were a Valente, but I knew that if Don Corvo bought that land, he would discover the trust and kill whoever lived there."

My eyes widened. "You... you bought the debt to protect us?"

"I bought the debt to force you into my territory," Roman corrected, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper. "I thought if I married you, I could keep you safe under my name without revealing the truth to the Council. I thought you were just an innocent girl who needed a shield."