The six-inch monitor inside Lorenzo Moretti’s armored SUV didn't lie, but for two terrifying seconds, Lorenzo wished it did.

In less than ninety seconds, Lorenzo was fully dressed in black tactical gear, two high-caliber handguns strapped to his chest and an assault rifle slung across his broad shoulder.

Lydia didn't cower in the corner. She had thrown on a black tactical sweater, cargo pants, and heavy combat boots. She pulled her dark hair back into a tight braid, her face set in a expression that mirrored Lorenzo’s lethal focus.

"Lydia, you stay in the panic room with Mateo," Lorenzo ordered, slamming a fresh magazine into his rifle. "The walls are six-inch reinforced titanium. Not even a rocket launcher gets through."

"No," Lydia said firmly, reaching for a small 9mm pistol sitting on the tactical table.

Lorenzo grabbed her wrist. "This isn't a hand-to-hand fight with a house intruder, Lydia! This is fifty military-trained Spetsnaz mercenaries backed by corrupt federal agents! You stay behind the steel!"

"Listen to me, you stubborn mafia idiot!" Lydia yelled back, pulling her wrist free and pointing at the monitor displaying the estate grounds. "Look at the camera feed! Sokolov isn't coming through the front door! That federal warrant is a distraction to draw your guards down to the gates!"

Lorenzo glanced at the security feed.

On the main lawn, thirty FBI vehicles with flashing blue lights were staging near the iron gates, holding his security team in a standoff. But on the thermal imaging camera near the east garden wing—where Mateo’s private room was located—twelve dark heat signatures were rappelling down from a silent stealth helicopter.

"They used the federal warrant to lock your main force at the gate," Lydia explained quickly, her tactical mind working with frightening speed. "They're going straight for the medical wing's external glass!"

Lorenzo stared at her, shock flickering across his features before turning into absolute pride. "Marco! Take teams two and three to the main gate! Keep the federal agents occupied with lawyers! Do not open fire unless they breach the perimeter!"

"And you, Boss?" Marco asked.

"Me and my fiancée are going to hunt some Russians," Lorenzo declared darkly.

Down in the east wing, Mateo was sitting in his bed, listening to the muffled thuds of heavy boots on the roof above him. He couldn't move his legs. He couldn't reach a weapon. But his eyes were calm.

The reinforced glass window of his room exploded inward in a shower of tiny, safety-glass cubes.

Three masked mercenaries wearing night-vision goggles vaulted into the room, their suppressed submachine guns raised.

"Target identified," the lead mercenary said in a thick Russian accent, stepping toward Mateo's bed. "Secure the paralyzed one. Kill the medical staff."

BOOM!

A 12-gauge shotgun blast blew the lead Russian back through the shattered window frame.

Lorenzo stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, racking another shell into his shotgun with a lethal CLICK-CLACK.

"Welcome to Chicago, boys," Lorenzo growled.

BOOM! BOOM!

The room erupted into a violent firefight. Lorenzo moved like a shadow, using the thick marble pillars of the wing for cover, his shots precise, brutal, and unforgiving.

The second Russian squeezed his trigger, spraying bullets across the room, forcing Lorenzo behind a pillar.

The third Russian lunged toward Mateo’s bed, reaching into his vest for a hypodermic needle filled with lethal nerve agent. "Time to sleep, little Moretti—"

THUD.

A heavy bronze statue of the Virgin Mary slammed straight into the Russian's temple.

The mercenary staggered sideways, blood pouring from his ear.

Standing on top of Mateo's medical cabinet was Lydia. She had flanked the room through the connecting service corridor. Without missing a beat, she leaped off the cabinet, bringing her full, heavy knee directly down on the mercenary's neck as he hit the floor.

CRACK.

The Russian went limp.

Lorenzo stepped out from behind the pillar, placing a clean shot through the remaining attacker's chest, dropping him instantly.

The room went dead quiet, save for the smell of smoke and gunpowder.

Lydia panted, wiping a smear of red blood off her cheek, looking down at the heavy bronze statue in her hand. "I think I broke Saint Mary," she muttered.

Mateo let out a raspy chuckle from his bed. "I think Saint Mary understands, Lydia."

Suddenly, a cold, heavy voice echoed from the shattered window frame outside.

"Impressive," said Viktor Sokolov, stepping through the broken glass.

The head of the Brighton Beach Bratva was a massive, scarred man in his fifties, wearing an expensive mink coat over a Kevlar vest. In his right hand, he held a remote detonator. In his left, a heavy gold-plated revolver aimed directly at Lydia’s chest.

Behind him, eight more Russian mercenaries flooded into the room, their laser sights painting red dots across Lorenzo’s torso.

"Lorenzo Moretti," Sokolov purred, his golden teeth glinting in the moonlight. "You have built a nice little empire. But your brother belongs to the Russian Syndicate now. He knows the location of the offshore accounts your late father set up in Moscow."

"He doesn't know anything, Sokolov," Lorenzo said, slowly lowering his shotgun, keeping his body positioned half an inch in front of Lydia.

"He doesn't need to speak," Sokolov smirked. "We have scientists in St. Petersburg who can extract memories from a paralyzed brain using electric stimulation. He will suffer for months before he dies."

Sokolov raised the remote detonator. "This house is rigged with eight plastic explosive charges around the foundation. Drop your weapons, Lorenzo, or I blow this entire wing into the lake."

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked to Lydia. Her face was pale, but her fingers were tapping against her thigh in a strange, deliberate rhythm.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

It was the Morse code signal for the estate's internal fire suppression system—a system Lydia had spent three days cleaning during her time as a maid.

Lorenzo’s lips twitched in a microscopic smile.

"Sokolov," Lydia spoke up suddenly, taking a slow step out from behind Lorenzo. "You really should have checked the service specs of this estate before you brought explosives inside."

Sokolov frowned. "What are you talking about, fat girl?"

"The fire suppression system in this wing isn't water," Lydia smiled—a cold, terrifying smile. "It's high-pressure Halon gas. Designed to extinguish chemical fires in five seconds."

She slammed her elbow back into the wall switch behind her.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT!

Thick, white, suffocating Halon gas erupted from twelve ceiling nozzles at three hundred pounds per square inch.

The room was instantly plunged into absolute zero visibility and zero oxygen.