Men who run betray panic, and panic was a luxury Adriano had excised from his veins years ago. But as his heavy leather shoes struck the flagstones of the terrace, the sound was like hammer blows on glass. The fifty-odd socialites, politicians, corporate sycophants, and underworld associates who had been laughing a moment ago suddenly found themselves paralyzed by a terrifying gravity.

The power in the mansion died a second later, plunging the grand corridors into an eerie, blood-red glow supplied by the emergency backup generators.

"Stay here," Adriano commanded, shoving the heavy oak door shut and locking it from the outside with a deafening click.

Inside the bedroom, Rebecca stood frozen for a fraction of a second. Down the hall, in the nursery, she heard a terrified whimper.

Clementine.

Instinct overrode fear. Rebecca rushed to the nursery, sweeping her sleeping daughter into her arms, wrapping the heavy blanket around the child's face to muffle her sobs. She ran back to the master suite, checking every exit. The balcony doors led down to the gardens, but outside, the sharp crack of silenced gunfire echoed through the night air.

Men were moving through the corridors.

Heavy boots thudded against the antique hardwood. Shouted orders in harsh, unfamiliar voices cut through the smoke that was beginning to curl under the door.

“Clear the west wing! Find the girl! Rossi wants the entire house wiped clean!”

Rebecca backed into the master bathroom, locking the door behind her. Her mind raced. There was an old service shaft behind the laundry chute—something she had noticed while cleaning the second-floor utility closet months ago. It dropped straight down into the basement storage rooms near the staff exit.

Holding Clementine tightly against her chest, Rebecca squeezed into the narrow, dark shaft. The air smelled of dust, old iron, and damp stone. She pushed herself backward, sliding down the metal chute into the cool darkness below, praying to a God she hadn't spoken to since Thomas died that they wouldn't be heard.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Adriano Falcone was waging a war in the dark.

The master hallway was littered with spent brass casings. Two of Rossi’s hitmen lay sprawled across the Persian carpets, neutralised with clinical precision. Adriano stood behind a marble pillar, reloading his pistol with practiced, icy calm.

"Falcone!" a raspy voice yelled from down the corridor.

Step by heavy step, a scarred giant of a man emerged from the smoke. Vincent Rossi. He held an assault rifle loosely in one hand, a cruel, triumphant grin splitting his scarred face.

"It’s over, Adriano," Rossi laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Your little empire is burning. The docks are mine, the council has abandoned you, and your little maid and her bastard kid are already food for the fishes in the lower bay."

Adriano stepped out from behind the pillar, his pistol raised and steady.

"You talk too much, Vincent," Adriano said softly.

"And you grew soft because of a ghost from West Virginia!" Rossi snarled, raising his rifle.

Before Rossi could pull the trigger, a series of deafening explosions rocked the front gates outside. The heavy iron security doors of the Falcone estate blew inward in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.

Sirens wailed in the distance—not police sirens, but the private tactical response units Adriano had set on automatic alert the moment the perimeter sensors detected unauthorized explosives.

Rossi’s eyes widened in sudden panic. "You set a dead man's switch?"