The nursery grew so quiet that the hum of the electronic air purifiers sounded like a jet engine. I stared at the underside of Theo’s mattress, my chest tightening with a cold, metallic dread that I hadn't felt since my early days in the underworld.

The Mercedes slammed to a halt on the expansive cobblestone courtyard of Arthur Sterling’s cliffside mansion. The sprawling glass-and-steel modern fortress overlooked the black, churning expanse of the Pacific Ocean, its floor-to-ceiling windows glowing with a warm, deceptive amber light.

Before the dust had even settled, the doors of our support vehicles flew open, disgorging six heavily armed tactical operatives who immediately took up defensive positions around the perimeter.

"Secure the exits. Nobody leaves this property alive," I instructed, stepping out into the cold ocean breeze.

I drew my Beretta, the heavy metal feeling like an extension of my own arm. As I walked toward the massive glass front doors, they slid open automatically, as if welcoming an expected guest.

Standing in the center of the grand, minimalist foyer was Arthur Sterling.

He wasn't running. He wasn't cowering behind bodyguards. He stood beside a sleek glass bar, pouring himself a crystal tumbler of thirty-year-old scotch, wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that didn't have a single thread out of place.

"Adrien," Arthur said smoothly, not even turning around as I stepped across the threshold, my boots echoing sharply against the polished concrete floor. "I wondered how long it would take you to connect the dots. Though I must admit, I expected you to be a bit more diplomatic."

"Diplomacy died the moment you put transmitters in my children's cribs, Arthur," I said, leveling my pistol directly at his chest.

Arthur finally turned, taking a slow, leisurely sip of his scotch before setting the glass down on the glass bar. He smiled—a thin, condescending smirk that made my trigger finger itch.

"Those transmitters were just business, Adrien," Arthur chuckled softly. "Your father grew soft in his old age. He built an empire of cutthroats and expected everyone to sit around singing kumbaya once he retired to his little hideaway. When he faked his death twenty years ago, I realized someone had to steer the ship with a real hand."

"And you thought you could use Dante to do your dirty work?"

"Dante was an ambitious idiot," Arthur shrugged dismissively. "He wanted wealth; I wanted absolute control. And when you discovered the truth about your father's lineage—and little Sophie—I knew you'd eventually come looking for answers."