Page 22 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

That was why they ran my security operation. One handled people, the other handled information, and together, they turned chaos into order. And right now, that structure was the only thing standing between us and the shooters.

“Move! Move!”

“Contact front entrance!”

I pressed Maeve lower with my forearm. “Stay down,” I told her. My voice came out steady, too steady for what was happening.

Another shot ripped through the upper glass panels. Maeve was rigid beneath me. I could feel her breathing, her body trying to make sense of the noise and movement.

I lifted my head just enough to see the room. Security was still moving.

“East side covered!” one of them shouted.

“Two shooters minimum!” another voice came in.

The shooters were good and they were adapting to our countermoves, which meant this wasn’t random chaos; this was planned violence. Now that security was in the penthouse, the elevators were locked.

“Close roof access too,” I said, my voice low. “Nobody leaves this building.”

“Yes, boss!” came the response.

Maeve’s hand was pressed against my side. I could feel the tension in her fingers.

The gunfire outside started to thin, but didn’t stop immediately. It broke apart instead, less coordinated, more distant. Then it was replaced by movement inside the building, more security flooding in, doors, radios, orders being repeated.

Maeve stayed under me, breathing hard but still conscious, still aware. I lifted my head again. The room was destroyed—glass everywhere, furniture overturned, the skyline beyond the broken windows exposed and open. My eyes moved across it all slowly.

“They knew the layout,” I said.

The shooters hadn’t sprayed randomly. They’d aimed with intention, controlled entry points, predictable sightlines,and one focal point—the section where Maeve had been standing. I looked at the glass near her shoulder, then at the angle of impact, then across the room again. I pushed myself up slightly, still keeping my body between Maeve and the open window.

Security moved fast through the space now, clearing angles, checking access points, and speaking into radios in clipped updates.

I watched all of it, then spoke once. “Inside help?”

“Unclear,” one of them answered immediately.

That meant it was possible, since someone had known this floor plan well enough to time their attack and know where to aim. I turned my head slightly toward the broken glass again. Security dragged a man through the elevator beyond the living space, injured and under control. I barely looked at him.

“Alive?” I asked.

“Yes,” came the answer.

“Good.”

I pushed myself off Maeve slowly, staying low, scanning the scene again. The penthouse was secure for the moment, but not settled. My focus returned to her, checking her face, her arms, her shoulders, her breathing.

“Any injuries?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

I checked her anyway. My hands moved once over her arms, then her shoulders, then her sides. There was no blood, no fractures, and all I could see was shock. I stepped back only when I was satisfied that she was unharmed.

Declan appeared at the edge of the wreckage. “We’ve got shell casings on the adjacent rooftop,” he said. “Professional setup.”

Maeve was upright now near the island, unsteady but standing. I turned fully toward her immediately, on instinct again.

Maeve looked at me, then at the room, then back at me. And I understood something I didn’t say out loud: this had crossed a line. Someone had tried to hurt her through my penthouse, through my security, through me.