"Don't touch her!" The shout hit the alley like a thrown fist. "Shut up," one of the men slurred. He shoved Joy against the brick and laughed when she hissed and tried to push back. "Who's the squealer?" The other man stepped closer, hand reaching for the zipper of her coat. "Nice coat for a pretty little heiress." "Joy Fitzgerald?" the first man said, more interested now. "Oh, that's our lucky night." "Let go," Joy spat. Her hands were trembling but she kept them moving, grabbing at the sleeve, twisting, pulling. She had fixed worse things than drunk fingers. Her training at the restoration studio came back in the smallest motions—steady, precise, stubborn. She kicked out and hit one in the shin. "Heard that," one said and shoved her so hard she hit the dumpster lid. Pain flared in her elbow. They moved together like a shark and a seal. "Try to scream," the second man said. He jammed a filthy hand over her mouth. "No one wants trouble." "Open. Now," a voice said. The alley went quiet except for wet shoes and a far muffled horn. A figure stepped out from the shadow of the delivery bay. Tall. Dark coat. Hands empty. No wasted movement. He didn't look surprised. He just looked fast. "Keep your hands where I can see them," the newcomer said. "Who the hell—" the first attacker started. The stranger moved. Two steps, one swing, and the first man crumpled against