EVERYONE PRAISED THE MAFIA BOSS'S WEDDING SUIT. THEN I CUT ONE RED THREAD AND FOUND THE TRAP MEANT FOR HIM.

"Down!" Luca roared.

He grabbed me by the waist, tackling me to the wooden floorboards just as a second bullet shattered the cast-iron frame of my Singer sewing machine, sending metallic sparks showering over us.

Luca rolled over, pinning me beneath his body to protect me from the flying glass. His chest was pressed hard against mine, his heartbeat loud and steady against my ribs.

"Julian! Smoke!" Luca barked.

Julian reached under his jacket, pulled a silver canister, and pulled the pin, tossing it toward the broken window. Thick, white chemical smoke erupted into the studio, obscuring the sniper’s line of sight.

Outside, the screech of tires echoed from the alleyway below.

Luca reached down to his holster, drew his SIG Sauer, and looked down at me. "Are you hurt?"

"My... my sewing machine," I gasped, looking at the broken iron frame of my grandmother's heirloom. "The drive wheel is smashed."

Luca stared at me in disbelief. "A sniper just tried to put a bullet through your skull, and you're worried about an antique?"

"That antique is how I weave your bulletproof lining!" I yelled back, my adrenaline surging. "You can't stitch high-density Kevlar-thread on a modern plastic machine! It snaps the needles!"

Luca let out a dark, booming laugh amidst the swirling smoke. "God, you are an insane woman, Clara Ward."

"Boss!" one of the bodyguards shouted from the fire escape, firing three rapid shots down into the alley. "They’re advancing up the back stairs! Four men, heavy armor, suppressed submachine guns!"

"Falcone’s men?" Julian asked, crouching behind the cutting table.

"No," Luca said, his eyes narrowing through the smoke. "Professional mercs. Look at their tactical spread. They aren't trying to capture us. They came to burn the studio."

My heart hammered against my chest. They weren't just trying to kill Luca—they were trying to destroy the Vicuña fabric, the research, and the only person who knew how to assemble the counter-measure suit.

"The basement," I whispered, grabbing Luca's arm. "The old bakery had an underground flour vault. It connects to the storm sewers under 5th Street."

"Lead the way," Luca said, pulling me to my feet.

We ran through the blinding white smoke toward the back of the studio. I kicked open the heavy oak door leading to the freight elevator shaft, grabbing a manual hand-winch cable mounted to the wall.

"Jump!" I yelled.

Luca didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arm tightly around my waist, pulled me against his chest, and grabbed the winch cable with his gloved hand.

We plunged down the dark shaft just as a grenade exploded in the studio above us, blowing out the floorboards in a wall of orange fire.

The impact when we hit the basement floor knocked the air from my lungs, but Luca absorbed most of the force, taking the brunt of the landing on his heavy boots.

We were in the pitch-black flour vault. The air was thick with ancient grain dust and damp concrete.

Above us, heavy footsteps echoed on the burning floorboards.

"They'll be down here in thirty seconds," Luca whispered, his mouth right against my ear. He handed me a compact flashlight from his pocket. "Can you navigate the sewers?"

"I lived in this neighborhood for thirty years," I whispered back, flicking the light on low beam. "Follow me."

We ducked through a narrow brick archway, stepping into the knee-deep water of the old storm drainage system.

As we waded through the dark, murky tunnel, the sound of gunfire echoed behind us. Julian and Luca’s guards were holding the basement line, buying us time.

"Who hired those mercenaries, Luca?" I asked, panting as we moved through the cold water. "It wasn't Don Carmine, and it wasn't Vivien."

Luca walked close behind me, his weapon raised toward the darkness behind us.

"There is only one person who benefits from destroying both the Moretti and Falcone families," Luca said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Someone who sits at my own table. Someone who knew about the fabric, knew about your studio, and had the money to hire international professionals."

I stopped in my tracks, turning my flashlight beam back toward him.

"Julian," I whispered.

Luca’s expression was grim. "Julian served my father for thirty years. But three months ago, I discovered he was shorting syndicate stock accounts through shell companies in the Cayman Islands. He knew I was going to audit the books after the wedding."

"He set up the wedding trap," I realized, the pieces falling into place. "He guided Vivien to the corrupt notary. He allowed the tracker to be placed in the suit. And when I exposed it, he used the sniper to eliminate us both before we could finish the new garment."

Luca took the flashlight from my hand and pointed it toward a rusted iron ladder leading up to a street manhole cover ahead.

"Julian made one mistake," Luca said, stepping onto the ladder.