Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The air in the penthouse, once thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and unsaid desires, was suddenly sharp with the smell of ozone and Cordite. The high-pitched whine of the private elevator's security system screamed in the background, a digital death knell.
"Get down! Dapa!" Zayden roared.
He didn't wait for Ysabella to move. He grabbed her by the waist and practically threw her behind the massive, velvet-upholstered sofa. She hit the floor hard, the plush rug doing little to dampen the shock. A split second later, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows—reinforced, but not invincible—shattered inward in a glittering rain of lethal diamonds.
Zayden didn't flinch. He stood in the center of the storm, his tall frame coiled like a spring. He moved with a terrifying, fluid grace that Ysabella hadn't seen in the café. This wasn't the man who pinched the bridge of his nose at her tears; this was the Mafia Boss who had built an empire on the bones of his enemies.
He raised his weapon—a custom-blackened semi-automatic—and fired three precise shots into the smoke billowing from the elevator lobby. The suppressed thud-thud-thud was followed by the heavy thud of bodies hitting the marble.
"Boss! They're coming up the service stairs!" Marcus's voice crackled over Zayden's earpiece, audible in the sudden, ringing silence.
"Hold the foyer," Zayden commanded, his American accent cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Anyone who isn't wearing a Spencer crest dies. Wala akong ititira."
Ysabella crawled deeper into the shadows of the sofa, her hands shaking so violently she could barely breathe. She looked through the gap in the furniture and saw Zayden move. He wasn't hiding. He was hunting. He transitioned between covers with a predatory efficiency, his blue eyes glowing with a cold, blue light that looked nothing like the man who had just touched her jaw.
He caught a glimpse of a shadow near the kitchen island. Without looking, he spun, his muscular arm extending. Crack. The intruder went down before they could even level their rifle.
It was a massacre. Ysabella watched, horrified, as the "hot, handsome man" she had spilled coffee on turned into a dealer of death. He was efficient. He was heartless. And he was doing it all to keep the perimeter around her secure.
Suddenly, the phone in Ysabella's pocket buzzed—a frantic, rhythmic vibration against her thigh.
She pulled it out with trembling fingers. It was a message from an unknown, encrypted number. Her heart stopped when she saw the first word.
UNKNOWN: Ysa. Run. Get to the stairwell on the North side. My men are coming for you. Leave Zayden. He's a dead man.
It was Mateo. She knew his syntax anywhere. Even through the text, she could feel his cold, protective fury.
Another explosion rocked the floor, closer this time. The lights went out completely, plunging the penthouse into a crimson hue as the emergency backup power kicked in.
"Ysabella!" Zayden's voice sliced through the dark. He was at her side in an instant, his hand grabbing her arm to pull her up. "We're moving. The balcony. I have a chopper inbound."
"Wait!" she gasped, showing him the screen. "It's my brother. Zayden, stop! Please, don't kill them! They're his men!"
Zayden glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening until the bone looked ready to snap. He looked at the chaos, at the blood staining his white marble floors, and then back at the girl in his arms.
"He sent them to kill me, Ysabella," Zayden hissed. "In my world, that doesn't get a please."
"He thinks you're hurting me!" she cried, the tears finally breaking through. She shoved the phone at him. "He doesn't know you let me go! He doesn't know you... You saved me!"
Zayden paused, his finger hovering over the trigger of his gun. He looked at the message, then at Ysabella's hazel eyes, wide and pleading. He cursed, a string of foul Tagalog and English.
"Fine," Zayden growled. "Text him. Now. Tell him if another one of his men breathes on my property, I'll send him his sister's shoes in a box. Tell him we'll talk. Man to Man."
Ysabella's fingers flew across the screen.
YSA: Mateo, STOP! Zayden knows everything. He knows who you are. He hasn't hurt me. If you keep attacking, he will kill everyone. He wants to talk. Please, Kuya. For me.
The silence that followed was more agonizing than the gunfire. Outside, the sounds of shouting and boots on gravel continued. Zayden kept his weapon aimed at the door, his body shielding Ysabella's.
A minute passed. Then two.
The phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN: Zayden Spencer is a shark, Ysa. But for you... I will stop. Tell the golden-haired bastard I'm coming up alone. If I see a single gun pointed at me, the truce is over. I want to see my sister.
Ysabella looked at Zayden and nodded. Zayden tapped his earpiece. "Marcus. Ceasefire. Stand down. We have a... guest."
Ten minutes later, the penthouse was a graveyard of broken glass and expensive mistakes. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, but the silence was absolute.
The elevator doors groaned open.
A man stepped out. He was dressed in a sharp, navy blue suit that screamed old money and hidden power. He was handsome in a way that mirrored Ysabella's features—dark hair, sharp jawline—but his eyes were like flint. Mateo Ramirez didn't look like a "lowkey businessman." He looked like a king who had walked into a rival's den.
Zayden stood in the center of the room, his gun holstered but his hand resting on the grip. His white shirt was stained with soot and a splash of someone else's blood. He looked every bit the Mafia Boss Mateo feared.
"Kuya!" Ysabella ran toward her brother, but Zayden's arm shot out, catching her waist and pulling her back into his side.
"Stay here," Zayden commanded, his voice a low vibration.
Mateo's eyes zeroed in on Zayden's hand on his sister's waist. A vein throbbed in his temple. "Take your hands off her, Spencer."
"She's safe," Zayden countered, his American accent returning with a vengeful edge. "Which is more than I can say for your men. You play a dangerous game, Ramirez. Scrubbing your identity? Hiding behind a civil servant father? Impressive. But not enough."
Mateo stepped further into the light, his face—the one usually blurred in the few leaked interviews he allowed—was now fully visible. He was the shadow billionaire of the Philippines, the man who controlled the digital flow of the country.
"I did what I had to do to keep her out of the mud we walk in," Mateo said, his voice cold and steady. "And then she spills a coffee on the one man in this city who can't take a joke."
"It wasn't a joke," Zayden said, his grip on Ysabella tightening almost imperceptibly. "It was a billion-dollar protocol."
"I'll buy your protocol," Mateo snapped. "I'll double the value of whatever deal you lost if you let her walk out of here right now. She's innocent. She has nothing to do with our world."
Zayden looked down at Ysabella. She was looking at her brother, then at Zayden, her expression a mix of relief and a strange, lingering confusion.
"She stayed on my lap for ten minutes without screaming, Ramirez," Zayden said, a dark, provocative smirk playing on his lips. "I don't think she's as desperate to leave as you think."
Mateo's face went pale with rage. "You son of a—"
"Kuya, stop!" Ysabella interjected, stepping between the two titans. "He didn't hurt me. He... he actually kept me safe when the shooting started."
Mateo looked at his sister, his expression softening into one of deep, protective pain. "Ysa, you don't know who this man is. He kills people who don't listen. He's a monster."
"I know," Ysabella whispered, glancing back at Zayden. "I saw him today. I saw all of it."
Zayden stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Mateo. He was taller, broader, and radiated a more visceral kind of violence, but Mateo didn't flinch. Two kings of the underground, standing in a ruin of glass.
"She's seen the face of the Spencer organization," Zayden said, his voice dropping to a serious, professional tone. "Normally, that's a death sentence. But I made a promise. To her."
He looked Mateo directly in the eye. "I won't harm her. Not now. Not ever. On my life."
Mateo searched Zayden's blue eyes. He saw the truth there—a truth that terrified him even more than a threat. He saw that Zayden Spencer didn't just want to keep Ysabella safe. He wanted her.
"If you break that promise," Mateo whispered, "there is no penthouse high enough to hide you from me."
"Understood," Zayden said.
Mateo reached out his hand. "Come here, Ysa. We're going home."
Ysabella started to move toward her brother, but she stopped. She turned back to Zayden. He was standing there, a golden-haired predator in a ruined palace, looking suddenly... solitary.
She remembered the way his thumb had traced her lip. She remembered the heat of his lap.
"My coffee," she said, her voice small. "I still owe you for the documents."
Zayden's smirk returned, softer this time, more dangerous. "I'll collect, Ysabella. Expect a call. And don't think your brother's firewall can block me."
Ysabella bit her lip—she couldn't help it. Zayden's eyes dropped to her mouth, and he let out a short, frustrated breath.
"Stop biting your lip, fuck," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear.
She flushed, turned, and walked toward Mateo. Her brother wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the sight of the bodies being cleared by Zayden's cleaners.
As the elevator doors closed, Ysabella's last sight was Zayden Spencer standing by the shattered window, the wind whipping his golden hair, watching her leave.
She was safe. She was going home. But as she looked at her brother's grim face, she realized the "boring" life she had once led was dead. She had witnessed the secret deal. She had touched the Mafia Boss. And the Mafia Boss was clearly not finished with her.
Inside the penthouse, Zayden turned to Marcus.
"Boss? What are our orders?"
Zayden looked at the emerald dress in the photo on his tablet, still lying on the desk. "Double the surveillance on the Ramirez household. Not to attack. To protect. If the Triad comes looking for a scapegoat for that deal, I want them to hit a wall of Spencer lead before they get within a mile of her."
He sat back in his chair, his fingers tracing the spot on his thigh where Ysabella had sat.
"And Marcus?"
"Yes, Boss?"
"Send a bouquet to her office tomorrow. Lilies. And a cup of iced caramel macchiato. The expensive kind."
Zayden closed his eyes; the image of her hazel eyes burned into his retina. The war had just begun, but for the first time in his life, Zayden Spencer wasn't fighting for territory.
He was fighting for a girl who was too clumsy for her own good.