At 1:47 in the morning, I caught my housekeeper’s six-year-old daughter secretly cleaning my forbidden office with her baby sister tied to her back because she believed one unfinished room would cost her family their home. But before I could discover why her mother had disappeared, the little girl pointed at my bookcase and asked why a woman was crying inside a room no outsider knew existed.

I left four heavy security guards at the mansion with strict orders to protect Grace, Mia, and Lily at all costs.

At 3:45 AM, I led a convoy of four black suburban SUVs down to the dark, rain-soaked docks of South Boston.

Julian Vance’s crew was staged inside an abandoned fish processing factory at the end of Pier 4. Three large speedboats were docked alongside, their engines idling quietly in the black water.

Inside the warehouse, thirty heavily armed men in tactical gear were loading crates of automatic weapons and cash onto the boats.

Julian Vance—a ruthless forty-five-year-old mobster from Queens wearing a long leather coat—stood on the loading dock, checking his gold Rolex nervously.

"Where the hell is Victor?" Vance barked to his lieutenant. "He was supposed to call twenty minutes ago!"

"I’m right here, Vance."

I stepped through the shattered glass front doors of the warehouse, flanked by twelve of my elite operators carrying assault rifles.

Vance’s men instantly raised their weapons, a tense, lethal standoff paralyzing the massive warehouse.

Vance turned, his eyes narrowing as he recognized me. "Roman Duca. I see Victor failed."

"Victor is currently sitting in my cellar waiting for his execution," I said, stepping forward, my voice booming across the concrete floor. "And you are trespassing in my city."

Vance chuckled, stepping behind two of his heavily armored bodyguards. "You came here with twelve men, Roman? I have thirty guys in this room and another twenty on the boats! You're outnumbered three to one!"

"Quality over quantity, Vance," I replied smoothly.

I lifted a small remote detonator in my left hand.

"Before I came inside," I explained, "my team placed magnetic demolition charges along the hulls of your three speedboats and the main support pillars of this pier. If I press this button, your fifty-million-dollar escape plan sinks to the bottom of Boston Harbor in six seconds."

Vance’s arrogant smile vanished. He glanced frantically toward the boats docked outside the bay windows.

"What do you want, Duca?" Vance spat, his hands trembling slightly.

"I want you out of Massachusetts," I said, my voice dropping into an absolute, unyielding command. "You will leave your weapons, your cash, and your vehicles right where they stand. You and your men will walk onto that commercial freighter at Pier 6 and never return to New England. If I see your face in Boston again, I won't use a detonator. I will hunt you down personally."

Vance looked at my cold, unblinking eyes. He looked at the laser sights painting his chest from my operators on the catwalks above.

He knew I wasn't bluffing.

Slowly, carefully, Vance unbuckled his shoulder holster and dropped his weapon to the concrete floor.

"Drop them," Vance ordered his men through gritted teeth.