Clara wrestled with the wiry assassin on the floor. The woman was trained, elbowing Clara viciously in the ribs, but Clara had the advantage of size and sheer, unadulterated motherly rage. She pinned the woman’s gun hand to the floor.

"Silas!" Clara screamed.

The door burst open. Silas didn't hesitate. A throwing knife buried itself in the assassin's shoulder, forcing her to drop the gun. Silas was on her in a second, rendering her unconscious with a brutal strike to the temple.

Dante arrived seconds later, his face pale with terror. He saw the ruined tea tray, the unconscious assassin, and Clara, sitting on the floor, breathing heavily.

A red stain was blooming on the sleeve of Clara’s emerald dress.

"You're bleeding," Dante said, dropping to his knees beside her, his voice shaking.

"It's just a graze," Clara gasped, looking over at Mia, who was crying but unharmed. "The gun went off when we fell. She's okay, Mr. Thorne. Mia is okay."

Dante didn't care about the assassin. He didn't care about his empire. He carefully lifted Clara into his arms, carrying her bridal-style down the hall.