The heavy iron door clicked shut behind Dr. Vance, echoing through the vaulted corridor like a falling gavel. Lorenzo didn’t look up from his desk. He already knew the verdict before the man spoke. He knew it by the way Vance’s loafers dragged against the imported Persian rug, and by the tight, sterile smell of hand sanitizer the physician carried with him like a shroud.

The mahogany desk in Lorenzo’s private study had never seen such meticulous preparation.

He didn't call his capos. He didn't call the cleaning crew. He sat alone under the harsh glare of a single brass desk lamp, methodically cleaning his weapons one by one. The Walther PPK, the suppressed Beretta, the heavy diamond-inlaid signet ring he wore on his right hand—every piece was inspected, oiled, and loaded.

Dr. Aris Vance was scheduled for his routine bi-weekly evaluation at 8:00 AM sharp. He would bring the "updated pharmaceutical manifests" and the latest round of intravenous boosters. He would walk through the iron gates, step onto the gravel drive, and enter the Duca estate expecting another broken, desperate father begging for a miracle.

Instead, he was walking into a tomb.

At 7:45 AM, Lorenzo walked back up to the third-floor suite. Lucas was sleeping peacefully now, the toxic IV line unhooked and replaced with a simple saline drip that Lorenzo had personally verified drop by drop. The poisoned leather pouch and the discarded syringe lay sealed in an evidence bag on the table.

Maria was standing outside the door, wringing her hands, her face etched with terror.

"Mr. Duca... I swear, Leo won't ever come near—" Maria started, her voice shaking.

"Maria," Lorenzo interrupted, his tone eerily calm. "Take your grandson down to the kitchen. Pack a bag for both of you. Do not answer the front door for anyone until I tell you it is safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand," she whispered, curtsying deeply before hurrying away.

Lorenzo stepped into Lucas’s room, pulled the heavy velvet drapes across the windows, and sat down in the leather armchair facing the door. He placed the heavy Colt flat on his right thigh, covered lightly by the fold of his suit jacket.

The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway began to chime.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

A heavy knock echoed against the front doors downstairs. A few moments later, the soft chime of the private elevator announced someone ascending directly to the third-floor landing.