The silence in Bellavita wasn't the quiet of a resting room; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded gun.

“Marcus,” Dominic growled, the name tearing from his throat like a suppressed roar. His finger whitened on the trigger of his Beretta, but he didn't fire. Marcus had positioned himself directly in front of the reinforced panic room entryway—and behind him, strapped to a steel chair with a digital timer strapped to his chest, was baby Lorenzo.

My heart stopped.

Lorenzo.

“Ah, ah, Dominic,” Marcus chuckled smoothly, tilting his head. “Don't even think about it. One twitch of your finger, and my thumb releases the dead-man’s switch. Say goodbye to the precious heir.”

I peered around Dominic’s shoulder, my eyes locked on the baby. Lorenzo was awake, staring confusedly at the red digital numbers ticking down on the small device strapped to the infant carrier.

3:42... 3:41...

“You’re sick,” Dominic hissed, his voice trembling with a rage I had never seen before—a cold, terrifying fury that made the air in the room feel heavy as lead. “He’s your nephew, you psychotic bastard.”

“He’s a pawn,” Marcus corrected, his smile widening into something feral. “Just like your first wife was. Just like this little waitress you dragged into our mess. You think you can play god, Dominic? You think you can rule Chicago while harboring weak links?”

Marcus’s eyes shifted from Dominic to me, his gaze cold and predatory.

“Elena, right? Named after my poor, unfortunate sister-in-law,” Marcus sneered. “You have a habit of stumbling into dying rooms, don't you? Let’s see if you can save this one before the clock hits zero.”

2:55... 2:54...

My mind raced. Nursing school protocols, triage training, emergency response drills—none of that mattered when faced with a digital C-4 detonator wired to a infant car seat. But beneath the panic, my hands steadying on the back of Dominic’s jacket, something else took over.

The medical training wasn't just about saving lives; it was about pattern recognition. It was about reading the wires.

“Dominic,” I whispered against his ear.

“Stay back,” he muttered without breaking eye contact with his brother.

“Look at the device,” I urged, my voice dropping into a calm, clinical register. “It’s not military-grade C-4. It’s an industrial seismic charge. Look at the toggle switch on the side—it’s a pressure-release relay, not a dead-man's switch.”

Marcus’s smug expression flickered for a fraction of a second. “What did you say?”

“You don't have the wireless remote in your hand, Marcus,” I said, stepping out from behind Dominic, my eyes locked on the timer box. “The signal has to bounce through the estate’s local Wi-Fi router. If I disconnect the router, the trigger loop breaks.”