I WAS AMERICA'S DEAD ICE QUEEN, BUT WHEN THE MAFIA DON ORDERED ME TO DANCE ON ICE IN RAGS, HIS FATHER SCREAMED: ""THAT'S THE GIRL I PAID TO BURN!"

By ten in the morning, Vincent’s personal convoy of four armored black SUVs was tearing through the industrial districts along the East River. Inside the lead vehicle, the tension was thick enough to choke on. Vincent was checking the magazine of a customized matte-black 1911 pistol, his movements precise and mechanical.

I wore a tailored black trench coat over dark Kevlar, my old figure skating skates tied by their laces hanging around my neck.

""Why did you bring those?"" Vincent asked, gesturing toward the white leather skates with a subtle tilt of his head.

""They're not just shoes, Vincent. They're weapons,"" I said calmly. ""The steel blades are sharpened to a razor edge. And if your father thinks I’m just a helpless girl he can toss into an incinerator again, I want him to look at the very blades he failed to melt.""

A rare, genuine smile broke across Vincent's stern lips. ""Remind me never to make you truly angry, Mrs. Blackwood.""

The convoy screeched to a halt outside Pier 42. It was a cavernous, abandoned fish packing plant, rotting wood and rusted corrugated metal jutting out over the freezing, dark waters of the harbor. Fog clung to the docks, smelling of salt, rust, and impending violence.

Vincent held up a hand, signaling his six elite mercenaries to hold their positions. ""Arthur wants me. He wants to see fear. Emily, stay behind Marco.""

""No,"" I said, stepping past the massive bodyguard. ""Arthur tried to kill me first. I walk with you.""

Vincent stared at me for three long seconds. Instead of arguing, he reached out, caught the back of my neck with his warm, calloused palm, and pulled my face close. He pressed a hard, possessive kiss to my lips—tasting of bourbon, gunpowder, and raw promise.

""If anything happens,"" he whispered against my mouth, ""run for the water. Don't look back for me.""

""Nobody is dying today, Blackwood,"" I breathed back.

We kicked open the rusted side doors of Pier 42.

The interior was massive, dimly lit by flickering industrial halogen lamps suspended from high iron rafters. In the center of the vast concrete expanse, Arthur Blackwood sat comfortably in a high-backed leather chair, a fur-lined coat draped over his shoulders. Vanessa’s brother was tied to a wooden chair twenty feet away, bloody and unconscious, guarded by ten heavily armed syndicate soldiers.

""Welcome to the family reunion, son,"" Arthur’s voice boomed, bouncing off the damp concrete walls.

""Let the boy go, Arthur,"" Vincent commanded, stepping forward into the pool of light, his gun still holstered at his side. ""This is between you and me.""

Arthur laughed—a dry, rattling cough that ended in a cruel smirk. ""You think this is about you, boy? You're a pawn! You always were. Too soft. Spending money on your mother’s charities, refusing to take the expansion into human trafficking."" Arthur turned his yellowed, venomous eyes toward me. ""And then you bring this dead whore into my house.""

""I am the woman who is going to put you in a cage,"" I said, stepping out from the shadows into the light.

Arthur sneered, raising his hand. ""Do you know why I burned that rink, little girl? Not just for the insurance. Not just for the councilman. You were supposed to win the World Championship. You were supposed to sign the sponsorship deal with my shell company. When your coach refused to throw the match for the Russian betting syndicate, you became useless. Useless things get thrown in the trash.""

""And what happens to broken old monsters who fail to finish the job?"" I asked, my voice ringing clear across the warehouse.