The Moretti strike team made two fundamental mistakes.

The first was assuming that the loss of power at the Romano estate meant Marcus Vance’s insiders had successfully disabled the mansion’s defenses from within.

The second was forgetting that before Dominic Romano was a boss who wore four-thousand-dollar bespoke suits, he had been a forward scout for the 75th Ranger Regiment in the arid hills of the Hindu Kush.

The first vehicle, a black Cadillac Escalade, breached the wrought-iron gates after blowing the hinges with thermite. It surged up the winding half-mile driveway, flanked by ancient beech trees whose wet leaves whipped against the armored windshield.

Two hundred yards from the main portico, the front left tire struck a four-pronged caltrop forged from hardened carbon drill bits. The tire shredded instantly. The SUV lurched violently to the left, sliding off the asphalt into the decorative pond that bordered the rose gardens.

Before the driver could kick his door open, Salvatore Gangi and three men emerged from the treeline like wraiths. The report of suppressed submachine guns sounded like dry branches snapping underfoot. The headlights of the Escalade were extinguished with two precise shots.

The second and third vehicles stopped abruptly fifty yards back, their doors flying open. Eight men in tactical vests scrambled out, using the heavy tree trunks for cover, pouring automatic fire toward the stone terrace.

High on the third-floor balcony, shielded by the limestone balustrade, Dominic knelt with a customized Knight's Armament SR-25 rifle.

Through the thermal scope, the world was a canvas of dark emerald and burning white. He saw the heat signatures of three men maneuvering around the east wing toward the French doors of the library—the very doors Isabelle had loved because they let in the morning sun.

*One.*

Dominic squeezed the trigger. The heavy 7.62 round caught the lead mercenary in the shoulder plate, driving him into the sodden grass.

*Two.*

The second man pivoted, searching the roofline, but the second round took him in the center of his chest rig, dropping him instantly.

The third man turned to run back toward the safety of the driveway, but Salvatore stepped out of the shadow of an Italian marble fountain. A single, decisive muzzle flash illuminated the rain.

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun. The only sound left was the rhythmic hiss of rain falling through the cedar canopy and the steam rising from the cracked radiator of the overturned Cadillac.

Salvatore walked across the lawn, his flashlight beam cutting through the mist, checking the fallen men. He looked up toward the third-floor balcony and held up three fingers: *Clear.*

Dominic lowered the rifle. The cold rain beat against his face, washing away the smell of cordite. He looked out over the lawns of his estate—the lawns he had bought with Isabelle to build a fortress for their children.

He didn't feel triumph. He felt an overwhelming, bone-deep revulsion for the violence that had defined his life.

He stood up, slung the rifle over his back, and walked back inside to the nursery.

***