The gunman screamed, shielding his face as the heat blasted backward.

Vincent did not hesitate.

He lunged through the smoke, his large frame moving with terrifying speed.

His shoulder slammed into Derek’s chest, throwing both of them onto the gravel.

Derek gasped, the air knocked out of him as they rolled into the shadow of the wooden crates.

I crawled backward, my hands scraping against the rough dirt, trying to stay out of the light of the fire.

The gunman tried to raise his weapon, but Vincent kicked out, catching the man squarely in the knee.

A loud crack echoed through the yard.

The gunman collapsed, clutching his leg and groaning in the dirt.

Derek was already back on his feet, his face twisted in a snort of rage.

He pulled a heavy silver revolver from his coat pocket.

“You should have left her in the lounge, Moretti,” Derek spat, his voice shaking.

Vincent stood up slowly, wiping a smear of dark blood from his cheek.

“She is under my protection,” Vincent said, his voice deadly calm. “You do not dictate terms in my territory.”