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.

The nor'easter slammed into the Newport coast with a vengeance, turning the estate’s grounds into a roaring vortex of rain and howling wind.

Within minutes of Mateo’s warning, the security monitors flickered and died. The perimeter lights popped, plunging the grand estate into an eerie, shadow-drenched gloom illuminated only by jagged flashes of lightning.

“They cut the main power lines,” I said, drawing my Walther PPK with fluid, practiced ease. I looked at Sloan, who had already scooped Willa out of her stroller, her face pale but hardened with fierce maternal instinct. “Get to the basement panic room. Now.”

“I’m not hiding while you fight your ghosts alone!” she shouted over the roar of the gale.

“Sloan, listen to me!” I grabbed her shoulders, my grip firm, my eyes locked directly onto hers. “This isn't a hit squad. This is a federal snatch-and-grab backed by corrupt DOJ officials on Marcus’s payroll. If they take Willa, they use her as a perpetual legal hostage. Protect our daughter. Let me handle the front door.”

She swallowed hard, a single tear mixing with the rain on her cheek, and nodded. “Don’t you dare die, Vincent Moretti. You still owe me a real wedding.”

I forced a grim smile, kissed the top of Willa’s head as she slept through the chaos, and turned toward the grand foyer.

The heavy front mahogany doors didn't just open—they splintered inward as a flash-bang grenade rolled across the marble floor.

Bang.

The blinding white light and deafening concussion echoed through the hall. I dropped and rolled behind a marble pillar just as a hail of submachine gun fire chewed up the antique wainscoting.

Four men in black tactical gear bearing federal tactical insignia poured into the foyer. They weren't cops. They were private mercenaries dressed in stolen federal uniforms, executing a wet-work extraction under the cover of a legal warrant.

I didn’t hesitate. I came around the pillar, double-tapping the lead operator before he could sweep the room. The second man fired, a round clipping the shoulder of my coat, but I dropped him with a well-placed slug to the chest.

The remaining two scattered behind the sweeping dual staircases.

“Vincent!” a voice echoed from the darkness of the balcony above.

I looked up. Standing on the second-floor landing, holding a suppressed pistol aimed straight down at my chest, was none other than my mother, Elena.

Her face was twisted into a cold, unrecognizable mask.

“Mother,” I breathed, the word tasting like poison. “You set this up.”

“Marcus was a fool, but he wasn't wrong about one thing,” Elena said, her voice dripping with ice. “The Moretti empire cannot afford weakness. And you, my son, became weak the moment you let a woman and a child soften your bloodline.”

“You used me to kill Marcus so you could take control of the Syndicate of Nine,” I realized, the pieces finally clicking together in my mind.

“I used you to clean house,” Elena corrected smoothly, raising her sights higher. “And now, I’m going to take my granddaughter and secure the dynasty the right way. Drop the gun, Vincent. You can’t shoot your own mother.”

I looked up at her down the barrel of my weapon.

“You stopped being my mother twenty-five years ago,” I said softly.

Before she could squeeze the trigger, Mateo burst from the side hallway, slamming a heavy iron candelabra into the wall beside her and tackling her behind the stone balustrade. A stray shot shattered a crystal chandelier, raining shards of glass across the marble floor.

I vaulted up the staircase in three long strides, kicking the gun out of Elena’s hand as Mateo pinned her to the floor.

She spat blood, laughing maniacally against the Persian rug. “You can’t kill me, Vincent! The federal agents are already breaching the lower wing! You’ll spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison!”