The first punch landed like thunder in a cathedral.
No one breathed. Not the valet cowering behind the podium, not the older couple watching through the restaurant window, and certainly not Emilia Torres, who stood frozen just feet away—caught in the pull of a nightmare she never asked to relive.
Rain began to fall.
It wasn’t poetic. It was cold, sharp, irritating. Not a romantic drizzle, but the kind of piercing rain that soaked through your skin and made every exposed nerve scream. Fitting, really. Nothing about this was romantic.
“Max, don’t—” Emilia gasped, but the words were meaningless now.
Max Carter had already launched himself at Johnny.
Johnny met him halfway.
The two men collided like a dam bursting. Johnny’s back slammed into the hood of a Mercedes, and he grunted as Max
