I stood up from the rug, pulling Eleanor with me.

"Caleb loops the west wing security feeds every Friday night at midnight," I said smoothly, my voice dropping into a register so dark it made the air in the room freeze solid. "He thinks he's clearing the cameras for his private drop-offs with the Moretti couriers."

Eleanor looked at me, her hazel eyes wide with sudden panic. "Gabriel... he has twelve loyal guards inside the perimeter right now. If he realizes we know—"

"He doesn't know," I interrupted cleanly. "He thinks you're just a housekeeper I'm questioning about a server breach."

I stepped over to my wall safe hidden behind an oil painting of Naples, punched in the six-digit code, and pulled out two custom, silenced automatic pistols. I checked the magazines, racked the slides with a sharp, mechanical clack, and handed one to Eleanor.

She took the weapon without hesitation, holding it with practiced, military familiarity.

"Where did you learn to shoot?" I asked, a faint, proud smirk touching my lips.

"Elena didn't just give me Sofia, Gabriel," Eleanor answered quietly. "She gave me her private security detail in Boston. I've been hunting Caleb for two years."

I picked up my private satellite radio from the desk, tuning it to the encrypted security channel used exclusively by my secondary strike team—the men who operated outside Caleb's chain of command.

"Marco," I spoke into the mic.

"Boss?" my true underboss, Marco Vance, answered instantly from his post outside the iron gates.

"Execute Protocol Omega," I commanded smoothly. "Caleb Stone is a Moretti mole. Strip his guards of their weapons, lock down the perimeter, and secure the playroom where Maisie is staying."

"Understood, Boss," Marco replied without a second's delay. "Heavy team is moving in three minutes."

I turned back to Eleanor, setting my hand gently over her shoulder. "Stay in this study. Lock the brass deadbolt behind me."

"Gabriel, no," Eleanor insisted, stepping up beside me, her eyes burning with fierce refusal. "He helped kill my sister. I'm going with you."

I looked into her face—the sister my late wife had died to protect—and offered a quiet, firm nod.

We walked toward the heavy mahogany doors. I pulled my pistol, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the door open six inches.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor, holding a silenced submachine gun, stood Caleb Stone.