"Get out of the car—now!" a thug shouted as metal cracked under his boot and the Ferrari's hood shivered. "Back off!" Brielle snapped, one heel on the curb, cigarette between two fingers. She didn't move from the hood. The cigarette was for the picture, not for nerves. "Boss says open the doors. Now!" the taller thug barked, waving a baton. Gwen's phone hit the pavement and skidded under the Ferrari. "Bri, please—" she hissed, then louder, "Brielle, do not play tough with these people." "Play tough?" Brielle smiled, slow and loud. "They seem to have the role down already." "You are impossible," Gwen said, hands trembling. Her voice broke when the thug swung a wrench and metal screamed across paint. "Hey! Watch that!" Brielle kicked her shoe free and stepped lower. "My stylist will cry." The smallest thug leaned closer, face too close to the cigarette glow. "Give us the bag," he said. "Which one? My Chanel or my actual handbag?" Brielle asked. "Both have better taste than you." The tall thug laughed, the sound raw. "Pretty talk doesn't save your stuff." A rock slammed into the windshield. Glass spiderwebbed. "Leave her," someone said calm and flat from the street. The voice had weight. It cut through noise. All three men glanced. For half a second they forgot how to breathe. "Who said that?" the tall thug asked, swinging the wrench. A man stepped out from behind a black SUV, sleeves rolled, every movement controlled