The mahogany bed in the master suite smelled of expensive lavender and Sabrina's jasmine perfume. Roman stood by the edge of the mattress, the silence of the estate pressing against his eardrums like atmospheric weight.

Roman’s black armored SUV rolled up the long gravel driveway, cutting its headlights fifty yards before reaching the grand portico. The house was dark except for a single amber glow burning in the second-floor study—Sabrina’s makeshift command center.

Inside the vehicle, Roman checked the slide of his Sig Sauer P226 with a crisp, mechanical click. Beside him, Elena checked the clip of a compact Beretta tucked neatly into the waistband of her maternity trousers.

You sure you want to walk into that house eight months pregnant? Roman asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic hesitation.

Elena looked at him, her expression a mask of absolute steel. That house is still mine, Roman. And nobody kicks me out of my own home twice.

They moved out of the SUV like ghosts, melting into the shadows of the veranda. Marco and David flanked them, securing the perimeter while Roman used his personal biometric key to unlock the side service entrance.

The kitchen was dead silent. The aroma of expensive coffee still lingered in the air, a mocking reminder of Sabrina’s brief reign.

Roman led the way down the narrow stone staircase leading to the sub-basement—the fortified vault where his father had stored cash, ledgers, and weapons since the 1980s. The heavy steel door was ajar.

A shaft of blue light spilled out from the interior.

Inside the vault, Sabrina sat in Roman’s executive leather chair, her laptop open, furiously typing commands into the terminal. She was speaking in a hushed, frantic tone into a secure satellite phone.

...yes, Viktor, the transfer protocols are locked in. Once the DA signs the indictment tomorrow, the accounts automatically sweep clean...

Roman stepped fully into the vault, his boots echoing sharply against the concrete floor.

I wouldn't count those chickens just yet, Sabrina.

Sabrina froze. Her head whipped around, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated panic as she saw Roman standing in the doorway—and behind him, Elena, stepping calmly into the light with a cold, terrifying smile.

You... how did you get past the perimeter guards? Sabrina stammered, dropping the satellite phone onto the metal desk.

Your guards answered to the estate payroll, Sabrina, Elena said smoothly, walking toward the desk and resting her hand casually on the edge. And eleven years of loyalty buy a lot more than Viktor’s blood money ever could.

Sabrina scrambled backward, her hand diving into her designer handbag resting on the console. Before her fingers could wrap around the cold steel of a concealed firearm, Marco stepped out of the shadows behind her, grabbing her wrist with crushing force and wrenching the weapon free.

Don't do anything stupid, Sabrina, Marco growled, shoving her back down into the chair.

Roman stepped forward, leaning over the desk so his face was inches from hers. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

You wanted my empire, Sabrina. You wanted my life. But you forgot one fundamental rule of the underworld, he whispered softly.