His face was carved from granite, his dark eyes burning with a manic, desperate fury. He had already pulled his weapon, realizing that the server breach log from the third floor had compromised his entire network.

"You always were too sentimental, Gabriel," Caleb sneered, pointing the barrel of his submachine gun directly at my chest. "You spent four years weeping over a dead kid while I built a forty-million-dollar pipeline with the Moretti syndicate right under your nose."

I didn't flinch. I stood square in the doorway, shielding Eleanor behind my broad frame.

"You planted the bomb under Elena's car, Caleb," I stated, my baritone dropping into a flat, deadly monotone.

"She found out about the Gary Indiana drop-off," Caleb smirked, his finger tightening over the trigger. "She was a smart woman. Shame she had to burn on Lake Shore Drive. But don't worry, Gabriel... you're about to join her. And as soon as I clear this hallway, I'm going downstairs to finish the little brat she left behind."

The moment the word brat left his lips, Eleanor moved.

She didn't hesitate. She stepped out from behind my left shoulder, dropped into a low, tactical stance, and raised her silenced pistol with flawless, military precision.

THWIP! THWIP!

Two high-velocity rounds slammed into Caleb's right shoulder and collarbone before he could press his trigger.

Caleb let out a wet, choked shriek of agony, dropping his submachine gun onto the Persian runner as he stumbled violently backward against the marble wall, blood spraying across the wallpaper.

I stepped forward, raised my boot, and kicked his fallen weapon ten feet down the corridor.

Then I grabbed Caleb by his leather lapels, lifted his two-hundred-pound frame off the floor, and slammed him flat onto his back against the hardwood floorboards.

"You took four years of my daughter's life, Caleb," I whispered into his ear, my gray eyes holding a dark, ancient fury that made his blood run cold. "You made her wear a maid's dress in her own home."

"Gabriel... please..." Caleb whimpered, blood bubbling from his lips, his hands reaching up in a futile, pathetic attempt to push my arms away. "Lorenzo Moretti forced me! He threatened my family—"

"Lorenzo Moretti died twenty minutes ago," Marco's voice echoed from the end of the grand staircase.

Marco walked up the corridor, flanked by six heavily armed operators dressed in black tactical gear. In Marco's hand was a satellite phone displaying a live tactical feed from the Moretti estate downtown—where my primary strike team had just executed a complete, simultaneous purge of their leadership council.

Caleb's eyes widened into vast, hollow circles of shock as he realized his entire syndicate backing had been wiped off the face of the earth in less than half an hour.

"Finish it, Marco," I ordered coldly, tossing Caleb onto the floor like a sack of trash. "Clean the hallway before the child comes upstairs."

"With pleasure, Boss," Marco nodded, stepping forward with his sidearm raised.

I turned my back on the traitor, took Eleanor by her arm, and walked down the grand curved staircase toward the warm, sunlit playroom on the first floor.