Time didn't slow down—it accelerated. Years of muscle memory, drilled into me through grueling pre-dawn PT sessions at Parris Island and relentless hand-to-hand combat modules at Quantico, took the wheel. My conscious mind stepped back, a cold, calculating observer watching a machine do what it was built to do.

Marcus and I crouched behind a stack of industrial shipping crates at Pier 42, overlooking a private luxury yacht bearing the name The Black Swan.

According to Marcus's intelligence feed, Victor Vance was meeting with his remaining American operatives tonight to arrange a retaliatory strike against Davis Global Holdings—and against me.

"Target is moving," Marcus whispered, pointing through his night-vision binoculars toward the gangplank of the yacht.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat stepped off the vessel, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries wearing tactical gear. Even in the dark, you could see the cold, calculated posture of a seasoned killer. Victor Vance.

"Four guards at the perimeter, two inside the cabin," I murmured, assessing their blind spots and center of gravity just like I had done with David on the cruise ship. "Standard private security formation. Sloppy on the corners."

"You want to call in federal backup?" Marcus asked, resting his hand on his sidearm.

"No time," I said, slipping out from behind the crates into the shadow of the crane gantry. "This is personal."

Before Marcus could reply, I melted into the darkness, moving with absolute silence across the concrete pier. My designer heels had long since been replaced by combat boots once again. The corporate executive was locked away; the Marine was back on duty.

I crept up behind the rear guard stationed near the mooring lines. He didn't even hear me breathe. In one fluid, silent motion, my arm locked around his throat, cutting off his windpipe, and dropped him into the dark shadows before his boots could make a sound.

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His chest tightened, a sharp, cold panic piercing through the expensive...

$The silence of the boutique hotel room was a heavy, suffocating blanket. Two weeks had passed since Lena Moretti—formerly Lena Vance—walked out of Dante’s life, leaving behind an empire of glass, steel, and golden handcuffs. Now, sitting at a small laminate table with the ultrasound printouts clutched in her trembling hands, her life had completely fractured.$