The crystal chandelier above the twenty-seat mahogany dining table cast sharp, cold reflections across the polished silverware.

The heavy oak doors unlocked from the outside, and Viktor, Julian’s head guard, rushed in, his automatic rifle drawn.

"Boss! We have multiple armed hostiles breaching the outer wall!" Viktor shouted, his eyes wide. "They’re using military-grade night-vision and suppressed carbines. It’s an execution squad!"

"Get Grace and the girl to the sub-basement panic room," Julian ordered, his voice echoing through the room with absolute authority. "Activate the titanium shutters. Lock down the estate."

"No!" Amara cried out, wriggling in Grace’s tight embrace as the housekeeper tried to pull her toward the hidden wall panel. "Mister! Don't let them hurt you!"

Julian turned back for a fraction of a second. He looked into his daughter's eyes—eyes that held no understanding of mafia wars, mercenaries, or syndicate blood feuds.

"I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart," Julian said, giving her a small, tight smile. "I’m just going to clean up a mess."

Grace pressed a hidden button inside the decorative fireplace. A section of the marble wall slid open, revealing a reinforced steel elevator leading forty feet underground. Grace carried the screaming child inside, and the heavy door sealed with a pneumatic hiss.

The moment his daughter was safe, Julian’s expression turned into absolute, unadulterated nightmare fuel.

"Viktor," Julian barked, adjusting his cuffs. "Who leads the tactical unit outside?"

"We intercepted their radio chatter," Viktor replied, reloading his rifle. "It’s Ivan Petrov himself. Viktor Petrov’s youngest brother."

"Good," Julian sneered. "I was worried I’d have to travel to Moscow to kill him."

The grand glass windows of the conservatory shattered into thousands of flying shards as heavy flashbang grenades detonated in the courtyard. Black-clad mercenaries poured through the garden, their tactical boots crunching over glass.

Julian didn't hide behind cover. He moved through his own mansion like a phantom who knew every shadow, every corner, every sightline.

Pft. Pft. Pft.

His suppressed pistol spit fire in precise, methodical cadences. Three mercenaries fell in the grand foyer before they even realized where the fire was coming from. Julian reloaded seamlessly with one hand, stepping over a fallen body, his face as emotionless as granite.

"Hale!" a deep Russian voice echoed through the high-ceilinged mansion. Ivan Petrov stood near the grand staircase, flanked by four heavily armed guards. "Give us the nurse and the girl, and we leave your house standing! This isn't your war, Hale!"

Julian stepped out from behind a marble pillar into the moonlight filtering through the shattered skylight.

"You took my daughter from a burning clinic two years ago, Ivan," Julian said, his voice echoing off the walls with terrifying clarity. "You lied to me. You made me believe I had buried my child."

Ivan’s eyes widened in sudden, horrifying recognition. "You... you know?"

"I know," Julian whispered.

Before Ivan could raise his weapon, Julian raised his hand.

From the second-floor balcony, six of Julian’s elite marksmen stepped into view, their laser sights painting bright red dots across the chest and foreheads of every Russian mercenary in the foyer.

Ivan’s breath hitched. "Hale... wait! We can make a deal—"

"My daughter made a deal with me tonight," Julian interrupted coldly. "She asked if she could eat with me because she thought eating alone made people sad."

Julian looked Ivan dead in the eyes.

"Fire."

The mansion erupted into disciplined, lethal chaos. Within thirty seconds, the entire breach unit was eliminated. Ivan Petrov lay dead on the marble floor, his crimson blood pooling near the grand dining room entrance.

Julian stepped over the body, blowing a thin trail of smoke from the barrel of his gun, just as a black armored SUV pulled up to the front entrance.

Dr. Aris Thorne stepped out, carrying a metallic medical briefcase, accompanied by Marcus.