“DON’T MARRY HER!” The Hotel Security Chief Slipped a Photo into the Billionaire Groom’s Hand 3 Minutes Before the Altar—When He Flipped It Over, He Ordered a Total Building Lockdown!

The bullet from Evan’s SIG Sauer punched straight through the wheelhouse window, showering the interior in safety glass and severing the main throttle linkage of the idling diesel engine.

The *Marauder* gave a violent, uncontrolled lurch against its mooring lines as the engine roared to maximum RPM, snapping the stern cleat like a dry twig.

The sudden shift threw Peter off balance. In that fraction of a second, Claire Morgan fired twice. Her rounds struck the contractor holding Daniel—one through the shoulder, the second dead center through the collarbone. The man collapsed backward over a pile of rusted lobster traps, his shotgun discharging uselessly into the low clouds above.

"Daniel, jump!" Grace screamed.

Daniel, his hands still bound, threw his entire body over the low gunwale, plunging into the freezing, oily water between the hull and the pier.

Peter recovered with terrifying speed. Firing with his non-dominant left hand, he sent three rounds ripping through the timber planks at Evan’s feet. Evan dove behind an iron bait locker, wood splinters biting into his face as the rounds chewed through the cedar siding.

On the rocking deck, Grace lunged toward the wheelhouse, but Peter swung around, his face a mask of primal fury. He grabbed Grace by the hair, dragging her violently against his chest to use her as a human shield, his pistol pressed into the soft skin beneath her jaw.

"Drop it, Claire!" Peter screamed into the wind. "Drop it or I take her head off right now!"

Claire stopped five yards away on the narrow gangway, her Glock held perfectly steady, but her firing lane was completely compromised. Peter had tucked his head behind Grace’s shoulder, leaving nothing exposed except a narrow strip of his temple.

The diesel engine was screaming now, vibrating through the hull as black smoke poured from the exhaust stack.

Evan stepped out from behind the bait locker.

He didn't raise his gun. He held it at his side, hanging loose in his fingers.

"Peter," Evan said, his voice cutting through the mechanical howl of the boat. "Look at me."

Peter’s eyes flickered toward Evan. "Stay back, Evan!"

"You said you’ve protected me since I was nineteen," Evan said, walking slowly forward along the edge of the slip. "You said you did all of this to protect the Lee name. If you kill her, you kill the only leverage you have. And if you kill me... who protects you from Eleanor?"

Peter’s breath hitched. A flicker of real, human hesitation passed behind his cold eyes.

"My mother doesn't leave loose ends, Peter," Evan said, his voice dropping into a deadly, hypnotic rhythm. "You know how she works. The moment you clear that harbor, she’s reporting this boat stolen. She’s giving the Coast Guard your name, your coordinates, and the serial numbers on your weapons. You think you're getting paid fifty million to retire in Costa Rica? You're going to the bottom of the shelf with the rest of the garbage."

"Shut up!" Peter roared, his left hand trembling against Grace’s throat. "Shut your mouth!"

"Look at your phone, Peter," Claire said from the gangway, her voice slicing through his panic like a scalpel. "Check the emergency transponder you keep on your belt. Why do you think the Boston Harbor Police aren't here yet? Your mother’s company jammed the local maritime band twelve minutes ago. She didn't jam it to protect you from us. She jammed it so nobody hears your distress call when she cuts the fuel lines."

Peter’s gaze darted down for a single, fatal microsecond toward the blinking LED on his tactical vest.

It was gray. Unlinked. Dead.

In that microsecond, Grace drove the sharp, three-inch heel of her ruined satin shoe down into the arch of Peter’s foot with all the adrenaline left in her body.

Peter hissed in pain, his posture breaking.

Grace dropped her weight straight down.

*CRACK.*

Claire Morgan didn't miss.

The 9mm round caught Peter Cho precisely through the left orbital bone. His head snapped back, the pistol slipping from his nerveless fingers as his heavy frame toppled over the side of the *Marauder*, hitting the black, freezing water of Boston Harbor with a dull, heavy splash.