A DYING MAFIA BOSS LET HIS MAID’S TODDLER TASTE THE FIRST SPOONFUL—BUT WHEN SHE CALLED IT BITTER, HE REALIZED HIS KILLER WAS CLOSE ENOUGH TO HEAR HER

Normally.

Grant and Claire sprinted down the subterranean marble staircase, their boots clattering against the stone steps. As they reached the heavy biometric blast door at the end of the corridor, the red warning lights were flashing furiously.

Three elite mercenaries stood before the massive steel door, their heavy industrial thermal-lance cutting through the central locking mechanism with a blinding shower of white-hot molten sparks.

And standing right behind them, directing the cutting operation with a chillingly calm demeanor, was Arthur Sterling—the personal physician who had treated Grant for three years.

Grant stopped dead in his tracks, his hand tightening around his sidearm.

“Sterling,” Grant’s voice cut through the hiss of the thermal torch like a knife. “I trusted you with my life.”

The doctor didn't even look startled. He slowly straightened up, wiping a smudge of soot from his gold-rimmed glasses, and turned to face the man who had paid his salary, his home, and his research grants for a decade.

“You paid me well, Grant, I’ll give you that,” Dr. Sterling said smoothly, a cold, clinical smile on his face. “But loyalty is a currency with an expiration date. Ethan was a fool who rushed his moves, but the Council... the Council is infinite. They offered me full control of the European pharmaceutical patents if I helped them transition your empire into a clean, legitimate medical conglomerate.”

“By poisoning me? By using a toxic neurotoxin?” Claire screamed, stepping past Grant, her rage boiling over every ounce of fear. “You swore an oath to do no harm!”

Dr. Sterling laughed softly, a condescending, patronizing sound. “My dear woman, modern medicine is built on calculated sacrifices. The child was just a biological anomaly we hadn't accounted for. A glitch in the system. But don't worry—once we open this vault, we’ll sedate her properly. No pain, no mess.”

Grant didn't say another word. He didn't argue. He didn't negotiate.

He raised his weapon.

Bang. Bang.

Two deafening gunshots echoed down the narrow concrete corridor. Before the mercenaries could swing their heavy cutting torches around, both guards dropped heavily to the floor, neutralised with surgical precision.

Dr. Sterling’s face drained of all color. He stumbled backward, his hands flying up in a frantic gesture of surrender as the cold barrel of Grant’s gun locked squarely between his eyes.

“W-Wait!” Sterling stammered, his clinical composure completely evaporating. “You can't kill me! I’m the only doctor in the city who knows the exact molecular antidote to the secondary toxin we used in the air filters! If I die, you and everyone in this estate will suffer organ failure within forty-eight hours!”

Grant stared at him, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, the hammer fully cocked.

“I don't need your antidote, Doctor,” Grant whispered coldly.

Before Sterling could ask why, the heavy biometric blast door of the vault behind them hissed and slowly swung open outward.

Standing in the doorway, holding her brown teddy bear in one hand and pressing a small, silver override remote control in the other, was three-year-old Lily.

And behind her on the steel workbench sat a sophisticated, high-end laboratory centrifuge and chemical analysis kit—the exact equipment Grant had secretly smuggled into the panic vault three nights ago, instructing Dr. Sterling’s own lead apprentice (whom Grant had quietly flipped hours before the siege) to synthesize a complete universal antitoxin.

Dr. Sterling stared at the open vault, his jaw dropping in absolute, paralyzing disbelief.

“You... you already had the antidote synthesized,” Sterling whispered, the reality of his total defeat finally crashing down upon him.

“I never leave my security in the hands of traitors, Doctor,” Grant said softly.