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The big guy turns, reaching inside his jacket for a weapon.

But the stranger moves faster. Inhumanly fast.

There’s a dull thud, and before I can blink, the man’s on the ground, gasping for air.

A brutal punch. He wheezes, curling in on himself.

The stranger steps over the one still clutching his ribs, unbothered, like it was nothing.

“That was me being polite.”

His voice is quiet. Deadly. And it sends a shiver right down my spine.

The second one lunges, knife raised.

The stranger ducks, steps in, and laughs—actually laughs—as he sweeps the guy’s legs out with a vicious kick.

The man crashes down, hard. The knife skitters across the floor.

In a blink, the stranger pins him with a knee to the back, twists his arm up behind him until there’s a scream and a crack—dislocated. Maybe worse.

Then the third grabs me, pressing cold steel to my throat.

“Don’t move,” he hisses into my ear, but his voice shakes.

The stranger doesn’t even blink. “You picked the wrong woman.”

His voice is deep, steady—like he’s ordering coffee, not standing over two men writhing on the floor.

“Back off, or I’ll cut her!” my assailant shouts.

The stranger tilts his head slightly. “Move, and you die.”

“This isn’t your problem,” the man stammers.

The dark-eyed man smiles, cold and unforgiving.

“This haseverythingto do with me.”

The stranger points a gun right behind me, right at him, and shoots.

“Oh my God,” I gasp—half from the shock of how close the bullet came, half from the relief that they’re finally down. When I look back, I see him on the ground, writhing, blood soaking through his thigh. The shot was deliberate. A warning, not an execution.

I stumble backward, my legs hitting the edge of the table. My dinner crashes to the floor, shattering. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Three men just burst into my apartment—and now all three are down. Groaning. Injured.

The stranger kneels beside the one who tried to run and grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back.

“Tell D’Angelo that Chiara is under my protection now,” he says, voice low and razor-sharp. “Tell him what happens when he sends his dogs after what’s mine. Now all three of you—get the hell out before I change my mind.”

No one hesitates.

The bleeding man scrambles up, nearly falling over himself to reach the door. The other two follow fast, limping and stumbling, desperate to escape. Within seconds, they’re gone—leaving only blood, silence, and the wreckage behind.

I pressed a shaking hand to my chest, my heartbeat erratic.

The stranger turns to me, and I press myself against the wall. He could hurt me too—just as easily as he hurt them. But something in his eyes changes when he looks at me—softens, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.