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.

We loaded into the armored SUV through the blinding sheets of rain, leaving the Newport estate behind as red and blue federal cruiser lights began flashing at the end of the private drive.

Sloan sat in the back seat, holding Willa tight against her chest, her breathing ragged but steady.

“Where are we going?” she asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror.

“Not New York,” I said, shifting the transmission into manual and punching the accelerator through the mud. “If the federal apparatus is compromised, every safehouse on the East Coast is burned. We’re heading north across the Canadian border.”

“Canada?” Sloan gasped. “Vincent, we have a four-week-old baby—”

“We have a private airstrip in the Adirondacks that isn't tied to any corporate or criminal registry,” I cut in, my voice calm, absolute, and unyielding. “Once we cross the border, we vanish. The Moretti name dies tonight. Every bank account, every shell corporation, every asset—I’m burning it all to the ground.”

Sloan went silent. She looked down at Willa, then up at me, watching the harsh dashboard lights illuminate the scars and hard lines of my face.

“You’re really walking away from it all?” she whispered.

“I already told you,” I said, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “The only empire I care about is sitting in the back seat of this car.”

By dawn, the storm had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, piercingly blue autumn sky over the Canadian wilderness.

We touched down on a hidden gravel airstrip outside of Montreal, transferring into a nondescript local vehicle arranged by Mateo before our final communication lines went dark.

For the first time in my life, my phone had no signal.

For the first time in my life, nobody was hunting us.

We rented a modest, wood-paneled cabin overlooking a quiet, glassy lake nestled deep in the Laurentian Mountains. There were no armed guards at the doors. No security cameras scanning the perimeter. No whispers of war in the dark.

That evening, after Willa finally fell asleep in her makeshift crib, Sloan and I sat on the wooden deck of the cabin, wrapped in blankets as the sun dipped below the tree line, painting the water in strokes of amber and violet.

Sloan poured two mugs of black coffee, handing one to me.

“It’s quiet here,” she said softly, leaning her head against my shoulder.

“Too quiet,” I joked quietly, wrapping my arm around her and pulling her close. “I keep waiting for an RPG to blow up the woods.”

She let out a genuine, beautiful laugh—the kind I hadn't heard in years, free of fear, free of bitterness. She turned her face up, looking into my eyes.

“So, Mr. Moretti,” she murmured, a playful smirk touching her lips. “Since we’re broke, anonymous, and hiding in the Canadian wilderness... how are you planning to support your family?”