The silence in the penthouse shattered the second Sloan whispered those words. Before I could demand an explanation, the low, rhythmic thrum of a helicopter blade vibrated through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the master bedroom.

My instincts—sharpened by decades of surviving turf wars, betrayal, and assassination attempts—flared instantly. I grabbed Sloan by the arm, pulling her and Willa down behind the heavy mahogany frame of the bed.

“Stay down,” I ordered, my voice dropping into the cold, flat tone of a commander in a war zone.

“Vincent, what is that?” Sloan’s breath hitched, her panic for the baby overriding her exhaustion.

“A bird shouldn’t be flying this low over the financial district, and my security detail knows better than to approach without clearance.” I drew the suppressed 9mm Walther PPK from the holster I kept locked in the bedside biometric safe, flicking off the safety with a practiced click.

Through the glass, two black-clad figures rappelled onto the private terrace outside my penthouse. They weren't cops. Cops knocked, or they kicked doors down with warrant papers flashing. These men moved with the silent, lethal grace of international contractors—ghosts hired to wipe out loose ends.

“You said you were safe here,” Sloan whispered, tears welling in her eyes as Willa started to fuss again.

“I am safe here. Or I was,” I muttered, my mind racing through the possibilities.

If they tracked me to Manhattan, it meant my security perimeter in Europe had been compromised. But worse—what if they hadn’t tracked me? What if they had tracked Sloan?

The heavy glass of the terrace door didn’t break; it shattered as a specialized diamond-wire cutter sliced a neat circle through the triple-paned safety glass.

I didn’t hesitate. As the first intruder stepped through the frame, I fired twice. Center mass. He dropped before his boots touched the imported Persian rug. The second man raised a silenced submachine gun, but I rolled across the floor, coming up behind the mattress, and caught him with a round through the shoulder, sending him crashing over the glass coffee table.

“Vincent!” Sloan screamed, clutching Willa tight against her chest.

“Get to the panic room,” I commanded, grabbing her free hand and dragging them both toward the walk-in closet where the reinforced steel door hid behind a row of custom Italian suits. “Punch in my birthday. It seals from the inside. Do not open it for anyone—anyone—unless you hear me speak the passcode.”

“I’m not leaving you out here alone!”

“Sloan, look at our daughter,” I growled, my eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. “Keep her safe. That is your only job right now.”

She swallowed hard, nodded, and pulled Willa inside as the heavy door hissed shut, locking with a definitive, mechanical thud.

I turned back to the bedroom, stepping over the bleeding body of the first intruder. I knelt beside the second man, who was clutching his shredded shoulder, gasping for air against the shock.

“Who sent you?” I demanded, pressing the barrel of my gun against his temple.

The man grinned, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “Wrong target, Moretti. We weren't here for you. We were here for the heir.”

My blood ran cold. He meant Willa.

Before I could press him further, the man bit down on a cyanide capsule hidden in his molar. His body convulsed once and went entirely limp.

I stood up slowly, the silence of the penthouse feeling heavier than ever. My empire, my money, my mafia connections—none of them mattered if I couldn't protect the two people locked behind a steel door. And as I looked down at the dead assassin's radio, it flickered to life with a static hiss, followed by a voice that made my heart stop.