For eighty-nine days, Dominic Vale had been a ghost tangled in medical wiring. Now, his hand—heavy, calloused, and radiating dangerous heat—was locked around my wrist with a terrifying, vice-like strength. The monitors were no longer beeping in their predictable, soothing cadence; they were screaming a frantic, high-pitched symphony of chaos.

I paced the length of the cabin, my hands still stained with Dominic’s blood. Through the bulletproof glass windows, I watched the dock erupt into a chaotic firefight. Tracer rounds streaked across the night sky like fiery comets, illuminating the towering shipping containers in flashes of violent red and green.

Dominic was out there. Injured, bleeding, moving with calculated brutality alongside his loyal guards.

Suddenly, the encrypted main console in front of me beeped loudly. A video feed flickered to life on the central screen, displaying a live security camera image from the yacht’s outer deck.

A man was standing there.

He looked remarkably like Dominic—same dark hair, same sharp jawline, same intimidating presence—except his eyes carried a manic, unhinged glint. Julian Vale.

He wore an expensive designer suit completely soaked by the rain, holding an assault rifle casually in one hand as he stepped onto the yacht's deck.

“Brother!” Julian shouted into a camera feed linked to the interior speakers, his voice echoing through the cabin. “I know you’re in there! You can’t outrun a hostile takeover! The federal marshals are on my payroll, the board has signed the deeds, and you are just a ghost trying to reclaim a tomb!”

I froze. My hand hovered over the ship's internal intercom button.

On the screen, Julian’s gaze shifted directly toward the bridge windows, as if he could see right through them straight into my soul.

“And bring out that little nurse friend of yours!” Julian sneered, laughing darkly. “I hear she has a lovely bedside manner. Let’s see how she handles a real patient!”