Chapter 3 - The Perimeter Breach"Code Red!"
The earpiece in Diego’s ear flared to life with static and a frantic voice. "Gate four is compromised! Multiple tactical units—unidentified insignia! They’re bypassing the outer grid with military-grade scramblers—"
The transmission cut off with a wet, brutal pop.
Damon didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, the intellectual curiosity of the child’s arrival vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp tactical instincts that had kept him alive through three assassination attempts and a dozen corporate proxy wars.
"Salvo, take the girl inside the panic room behind the study," Damon commanded, his voice dropping into the lethal, arctic tone he used when issuing death warrants.
"Boss, the front gate is down—we need to get you to the armored transport—" Salvo started, reaching for his weapon.
"Do as I say, Salvo," Damon cut him off, his eyes locking onto the secure perimeter wall where distant plumes of dark smoke were beginning to billow. "Nobody touches her. If she gets a single scratch, your family name dies with you."
The little girl didn't scream, nor did she cry. She simply looked up at Damon, her small hand clutching the heavy silver key ring tighter. "They found us," she whispered, not with fear, but with a chilling matter-of-factness. "Just like I told you."
"Who found you?" Damon demanded, dropping to one knee to bring himself down to her eye level, ignoring the distant crack of gunfire echoing across the manicured lawns. "Who is outside, little one?"
"The men who want the ledger," she replied, her eyes flashing with a spark of ancient defiance. "The ones my mother ran from."
Damon didn't waste another breath. He stood up, unbuttoning his Tom Ford suit jacket with a fluid motion to clear his holster, revealing a custom Sig Sauer P226 tucked neatly against his ribs. He hadn't fired a weapon in anger in over two years—not since he streamlined the Castellano empire into clean, bloodless boardrooms.
But as he looked out across his burning estate, watching the black-clad tactical operators swarm over the imported marble fountains, Damon felt a dark, dormant thrill rise from the depths of his soul.
They thought he was soft because he wore suits. They thought he was an accountant because he traded in shell corporations and restructured debt.
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They were about to learn what happened when someone disturbed the architect’s foundation.
"Diego," Damon said coldly, racking the slide of his pistol with a crisp, metallic snap. "Let’s welcome our guests."
