The silence that followed Sophie’s whisper wasn’t the quiet of an empty house; it was the suffocating stillness of a loaded barrel pressed against the back of the skull.

Within twenty minutes, the skies above Long Island weren't filled with Moretti enforcers—they were filled with federal Choppers bearing DOJ and FBI insignia, descending upon the estate not to raid us, but to arrest every single remaining syndicate operative attempting to flee through the perimeter gates.

Vincente Moretti was hauled away in handcuffs, his empire collapsing around him like a house built of rotting wood.

I walked slowly toward the pantry door, punched the biometric security code into the steel bulkhead, and pulled the heavy door open.

The dim light of the safehouse spilled out across the floor.

Olivia, Sophie, and Nora stood huddled together near the back wall. Grace stood directly in front of them, her service pistol still drawn, her eyes fierce and unyielding until she saw my face in the doorway.

The moment she saw me, the tactical warrior vanished. Grace lowered her weapon, let out a long, ragged breath, and sank against the wall.

Nora broke away from the group first, running across the room and throwing her arms around my legs with a force that nearly knocked me over.

“Daddy! Is it over?” Nora cried, burying her face into my coat.

“It’s over, sweetheart,” I said, scooping her up into my arms and pulling Sophie and Olivia close against my side. “It’s all over.”

Grace walked up to us slowly, her shoulders shaking slightly from the adrenaline crash. I reached out with my free hand, caught her fingers, and pulled her into the circle, pressing her against my chest alongside my daughters.