Three days later, the trap was sprung.

Gideon hadn't spent those three days hiding behind his walls. Using the intelligence gathered from the botched greenhouse raid, he had systematically dismantled Victor’s entire financial and operational network across the eastern seaboard, cutting off their supply lines and freezing their offshore accounts before breakfast.

By midnight on Friday, the retaliation came.

A convoy of four unmarked black SUVs breached the outer security gates of Sterling Crest Drive, smashing through the heavy iron barriers like cardboard. Sirens wailed across the estate as automated defense systems flared to life, but the sheer volume of armed operatives pouring out of the vehicles overwhelmed the outer guard posts.

Inside the mansion, red emergency strobe lights flashed rhythmically against the dark walls.

Dante kicked open the door to Noa’s suite, his weapon drawn. “Code Red. Victor’s strike team has breached the main foyer. They’re coming for the west wing.”

Noa, dressed in dark tactical cargo pants and a black turtleneck she had insisted Dante procure for her, grabbed her heavy canvas shoulder bag loaded with emergency medical supplies. “Where is Lucia?”

“Already in the reinforced basement vault with two detail guards,” Dante said, motioning urgently toward the stairwell. “Mr. Cole is holding the grand staircase.”

“I’m not going to the basement,” Noa said firmly, pulling a heavy tactical flashlight from her belt. “If they breach the upper landing, someone needs to cover the blind spots from the gallery. Let’s move.”

Dante stared at her for a fraction of a second, then a grim, approving smile touched his lips. “Right behind you, Miss Bennett.”

The battle for the mansion was deafening. Gunfire echoed through the vaulted ceilings, shattering priceless chandeliers and chewing up centuries-old wood paneling. Smoke drifted through the corridors like a dense winter fog.

Caleb Cole stood at the apex of the grand staircase, a rifle braced against his shoulder, firing with cold, merciless efficiency as wave after wave of armed mercenaries tried to storm the upper level. He looked like an avenging angel of death, his face smeared with soot, his eyes locked on the threshold below.

Suddenly, a heavy explosive charge detonated near the side service entrance, blowing a secondary staircase open and sending two operatives lunging toward the upper gallery directly behind Caleb’s blind spot.

“Caleb! Behind you!” Noa screamed.

Caleb spun around, but before he could raise his weapon, one of the operatives leveled a pistol straight at his chest.

Noa didn't hesitate. She lunged forward across the polished oak floor of the gallery, tackling the operative full-force from the side just as he pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The bullet splintered the wooden banister inches from Caleb’s head.

Noa and the operative tumbled across the rug, wrestling for control of the weapon. The man snarled, raising his heavy tactical boot to kick her away, but before his foot could land, a deafening shot echoed through the gallery.

Dante stepped out from the shadows, his weapon smoking, and the operative collapsed instantly.

Caleb was across the gallery in two strides. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Noa by the shoulders and hauling her up against his chest as if he wanted to weld her into his very bones.

“Are you insane?” Gideon roared, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate terror that completely shattered his mafia-boss armor. “I told you to stay in the secure zone!”

“And I told you,” Noa panted, her hands resting firmly against his chest, feeling the frantic hammer-beat of his heart beneath her palms, “that I don't run.”

Before Gideon could answer, a heavy, metallic silence suddenly fell over the mansion below.

Through the smoke of the grand foyer, the remaining mercenaries dropped their weapons, their hands raised in the air as a dozen federal tactical units—summoned by Gideon’s emergency backdoor transponder—poured through the shattered front doors, handcuffing the surviving attackers in a sweeping, coordinated wave.

The war was over.

Victor’s empire had collapsed in a single night, crushed beneath the combined weight of federal indictment and Gideon Cole’s unyielding wrath.