The sound of my fist connecting with Adrian Duca’s jaw cracked through his Tribeca penthouse like a gunshot. His head snapped sideways.

The sound of my fist connecting with Adrian Duca’s jaw cracked through his Tribeca penthouse like a gunshot.

His head snapped sideways.

The cognac glass flew from his hand and shattered against the marble fireplace.

For one second, nobody moved.

Then three armed guards stormed into the room.

“Down!”

A hand caught my shoulder. A boot struck behind my knees. I hit the Persian rug hard enough to lose my breath. Cold steel pressed against the back of my skull.

I had just punched Adrian Duca. Not shoved him. Not slapped him. Punched him hard enough to split his lip.

And in New York, men had disappeared for much less.

Adrian slowly turned toward me. Thirty-eight. Tall. Black suit. Open collar. Dark hair swept back from a face that appeared on business magazines whenever Duca Development opened another billion-dollar tower. A tattoo disappeared beneath his collar and another crossed the back of his hand.

Publicly, Adrian was a billionaire developer. Privately, people lowered their voices when they said his name.

He touched his bleeding lip. “Give me one reason,” he said quietly, “why I shouldn’t let them carry you out in pieces.”

The guard pushed me harder into the floor.

“The drink.”

Adrian’s expression didn’t change. “What?”

“He poisoned your drink.”

Silence.

Then Vincent Rizzo laughed. Vincent stood beside the wet bar, silver-haired and perfectly composed. He had worked for Adrian for almost twenty years.

“She’s panicking,” Vincent said. “She attacks you, realizes what she’s done, and invents a story.”

“I saw you.”

His eyes moved toward me.

I swallowed. “You dropped something into Mr. Duca’s cognac.”