My boss invited me to the most dangerous gala in New York because he wanted me to embarrass myself. He expected his painfully ordinary secretary to arrive in cheap shoes, freeze in front of powerful criminals, and become the joke of the night. What he didn’t know was that I had spent three years making myself invisible on purpose.

Thorne thought I was a helpless hostage. He forgot who my father was.

As he walked away, I twisted my wrists against the heavy zip-ties. I had spent three years carrying files and serving coffee, but before that, I spent five years surviving. I dislocated my left thumb with a sickening pop, ignoring the agonizing pain, and slipped my hand free from the plastic restraint.

I moved with total silence. I grabbed the heavy metal chair I was tied to, swinging it violently upward just as the guard by the door turned around.

The chair crushed his skull. He dropped without a sound.

I snatched his suppressed submachine gun from his chest strap, slapped a fresh magazine in, and popped my thumb back into its socket with a sharp, suppressed groan.

The distant, deafening roar of explosives shook the warehouse foundation. Larkin had arrived.

Thorne turned around, his eyes widening in absolute shock as he saw me standing over his dead guard, holding a weapon.

“You little bitch,” Thorne snarled, reaching for his pistol.

I didn't hesitate. I fired a three-round burst.

Thorne dropped his gun, screaming as the bullets shattered his kneecaps. He collapsed onto the dirty concrete floor, completely immobilized.

I walked slowly toward him, the gun aimed squarely at his chest. I didn't feel rage. I felt a cold, empty peace. I reached down and ripped my mother’s locket from his trembling fingers.

“You thought I was the bait,” I whispered, staring down at the man who had destroyed my family. “I’m the trap.”

Outside the heavy metal door, the gunfire escalated into a deafening warzone. Larkin’s men were tearing through the warehouse like a force of nature.

Suddenly, the door blew off its hinges.

Larkin stepped through the smoke, covered in soot and blood, looking like the god of war. His dark eyes scanned the room wildly before locking onto me.

He saw me standing over the crippled body of the Chicago boss, holding an assault rifle, completely unharmed.

The terrifying, murderous tension in his posture melted into pure, absolute awe.

He dropped his weapon, crossed the room in two massive strides, and crushed me against his chest. I buried my face in his neck, the smell of gunpowder and blood grounding me in the reality that we had survived.