If there was one thing Damien Sinclair absolutely, fundamentally hated above all else in this world, it was being threatened. The sheer audacity of this spoiled, bankrupt socialite trying to hand him an ultimatum, to give him options regarding the life of his wife, was enough to make his blood boil.

Before Damien could even open his mouth, however, the man standing beside Elena let out a harsh, irritated sigh.

He reached up, popping the visor of his motorcycle helmet open.

"Assez parlé," the man grunted. His voice was thick with a French accent. "Enough talking. Get the girl."

On command, two tattooed Vipers cracked their knuckles, stepping forward from the pack to advance on the Maserati.

They didn’t even get to take a second step.

Damien moved with a liquid speed that the human eye could barely track. His hand whipped down to the waistband of his trousers. He drew the Glock 19, raised his arm, and fired.

Bang. Bang.

Two shots rang out in rapid succession.

Damien didn’t hesitate. He struck them down, placing two flawless bullets directly into their skulls before anyone else on the highway could even react. The two Vipers dropped to the asphalt like sacks of wet cement, dead before they hit the ground.

Beneath the low chassis of the car, Aria flinched at the explosive roar of the gunfire.

She jerked upward in panic, slamming her forehead squarely into a rusted metal bracket on the undercarriage.

"Ow, shit," Aria groaned quietly, squeezing her eyes shut as a sharp, blinding pain lanced through her skull.

She reached up in the cramped, suffocating darkness, her fingers gently touching the spot on her forehead. They came away sticky and warm. Blood coated her fingertips.

"Tell me what you want with her," Damien stated calmly, his tone dripping with manipulative ease, "and I might just consider giving her to you too."

Aria’s jaw literally dropped.

’Excuse me?!’ she thought, her hands hovering over the tangled mess of wires. She knew he was gaslighting them. She knew he was likely playing for time to figure out their angle, but the audacity of him!

Aria stared at the glowing red timer: 01:10.

Her mind raced a mile a minute. Her hands working the wires.

The French woman in the van had told her to back off. Aria had done exactly what the woman said! She had played dead. She had stayed low, staying far away from Lydia and the investigation. So why were the Vipers here for her right now?

Why come for her? Why now? Did Lydia send them?

As the two bodies hit the ground, the remaining cartel members raised their weapons, a dozen laser sights instantly painting Damien’s Kevlar-clad chest.

But Damien was already moving. He grabbed Elena by the scruff of her tweed jacket, violently spinning the screaming socialite around and pressing the smoking hot barrel of his Glock directly against her forehead.

He used her as a human meat shield, unbothered by the dozen guns aimed right back at him. He looked as calm as if he were in a casual meeting.

The man who had ordered the attack stepped forward, raising a hand to stop his men from firing.

"You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, Sinclair," the French boss warned, his voice low and threatening.

"How about you enlighten me?" Damien countered smoothly. He pressed the gun harder into Elena’s skull, drawing a pathetic, terrified whimper from her. "What do you want with my wife? Tell me, or she dies."

Elena was trembling violently against Damien’s chest, tears of fear streaming down her face. "P-Please! Do what he says! Don’t let him shoot me!"

The Frenchman stared at Elena.

Then, the cartel boss let out a loud, mocking scoff.

"You think I give a fuck about her?" the man laughed, his thick accent dripping with absolute disdain. "Hell, I’ll kill the annoying bitch myself. All she does is nag anyway."

Elena gasped, her tear-streaked face twisting in horrified betrayal.

"I hate working with Americans," the French boss complained loudly to his men, gesturing to Elena with the barrel of his own gun. "You’re all entitled children cosplaying as grown-ups. She thought she was a cartel boss because we decided to help her out."

"You bastards!" Elena shrieked, the betrayal temporarily overriding her paralyzing fear. She thrashed shakily against Damien’s iron grip, screaming at the man in the helmet. "The only reason you got this far was thanks to my idea! My plan! I detoured his escort! We had a deal!"

The boss let out an exhausted sigh. He slowly raised his weapon, pointing it directly at Elena’s face.

"Weren’t you taught," the Frenchman asked coldly, "to never make deals with the devil?"

BANG.

The man didn’t hesitate for a second. He pulled the trigger.

Damien immediately released his grip. Elena’s lifeless body crumpled to the asphalt, landing directly by the toes of Damien’s expensive leather shoes.

A pool of dark crimson blood quickly began to spread across the highway.

Beneath the car, Aria flinched at the third gunshot, her hands shaking so badly she nearly dropped the wire cutters. She forced herself to focus, staring at the red, blue, and yellow wires.

’Focus, Aria, focus,’ she chanted internally, a bead of sweat stinging the cut on her forehead. ’Damien needs you to focus. If you don’t, he will die.’

Up above, the cartel boss lowered his gun, a wide, genuinely impressed grin spreading across his face.

"So," the man chuckled, stepping over the spreading puddle of Elena’s blood. "What are you going to do now, Demon King?"

Damien didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look down at the dead socialite bleeding out on his shoes.

His hand remained perfectly steady as he kept his Glock aimed squarely at the French boss’s chest.

"Tell me what you want with my wife," Damien repeated, his voice unyielding.

The man laughed.

"I admire your balls of steel, Demon King," he grinned, casually reloading his weapon. "Since you’re going to die anyway... let me tell you a love story."