Mister, put your dog in timeout!” Three-year-old Lucy Bennett marched into the private meeting of the most feared man in Chicago with one hand on her hip and the other gripping what

The morning brought a deceitful peace.

By noon, the police had officially charged Gregory Bennett with felony home invasion, armed burglary, and aggravated assault, holding him without bail under federal statutes. The Valenti foot soldier had already confessed to three separate syndicate operations under Frank’s "persuasive" questioning.

Vincent had spent the morning coordinating with his lieutenants. But at two in the afternoon, Nora requested something simple.

“Lucy has been trapped inside for three days,” Nora told Vincent in the conservatory. “She needs fresh air. Just thirty minutes at the private botanical gardens at Lincoln Park. The Calder foundation owns the reserved pavilion, right?”

Vincent hesitated. Every strategic bone in his body told him to keep them locked behind three-inch steel doors until Valenti was neutralized. But looking at Lucy pressing her nose against the glass, holding Captain Carrot and sighing mournfully at the sunshine, his resolve cracked.

“Forty-five minutes,” Vincent said. “With myself, Mason, Frank, and Bishop. We take two armored Suburbans.”

The Lincoln Park Conservatory’s private east wing was lush, humid, and bursting with tropical orchids and towering ferns. The Calder family’s private endowment meant the wing was closed to the general public for the afternoon.

Lucy ran along the brick pathways, her pink sneakers squeaking on the damp stone, laughing as Bishop trotted faithfully behind her like a giant, furry guardian angel.

“Look, Mommy! Giant bananas!” Lucy pointed up at the canopy.

Nora laughed, holding Vincent’s hand. For the first time in months, the lines of tension on her face had smoothed out completely. Her fingers intertwined with Vincent’s calloused hand felt right—natural, permanent.

Vincent smiled down at her, the dark shadows beneath his eyes retreating. “Bananas don't grow on those trees, Princess.”

“They do,” Lucy insisted stubbornly. “They’re invisible bananas.”

Mason chuckled from twenty yards back, patrolling the perimeter entrance, while Frank stood near the glass atrium doors, speaking quietly into his earpiece.

Suddenly, Frank’s posture changed. He straightened up, his hand pressing the comm-link hard against his ear.

“Boss!” Frank shouted, his voice echoing through the glass dome. “Incoming! South gate just lost signal—it’s an ambush!”

The heavy glass ceiling above them shattered in a deafening cascade of gunfire.

High-caliber automatic rounds ripped through the greenhouse glass, showering the pathways in shards of sharp crystal. Two black vans slammed through the decorative iron gates outside, disgorging six masked gunmen armed with tactical rifles.

Dominic Valenti had decided not to wait for Calder to visit him. He had launched a desperate, suicidal decapitation strike.

“Down!” Vincent roared.

In a fraction of a second, Vincent lunged forward, tackling Nora and Lucy to the brick floor beneath the thick concrete planter of an ancient palm tree.

Bishop let out a deafening, savage bark, positioning his massive body over Lucy’s trembling form like a furry shield.

“Mason! Frank! Suppressive fire!” Vincent bellowed, drawing his custom 1911 and returning fire through the foliage with lethal accuracy.

Across the pavilion, Mason’s rifle barked in steady, controlled bursts. A Valenti gunman collapsed on the terrace steps. Frank flanked from the left, his heavy .45 thundering through the humid air.

“Mommy!” Lucy screamed, burying her face into Bishop’s neck, the little girl crying in sheer terror.

“I’m here, baby, I’m right here!” Nora sobbed, covering Lucy’s body with her own, her eyes wide with horror as bullets chewed into the concrete planter inches above their heads, sending clouds of pulverized stone raining over them.

Vincent emptied his magazine, dropping a second attacker advancing down the center aisle. He slapped a fresh magazine into the grip, his face a terrifying portrait of cold, focused wrath.

“Stay behind the planter!” Vincent yelled to Nora over the deafening din. “Don't move!”

Through the smoke and falling leaves, a third gunman slipped through the side entrance, raising a short-barreled shotgun aimed squarely at the gap in the planter where Lucy’s pink sneakers were visible.

The shooter squeezed the trigger.

“No!” Vincent shouted.

Without a second of hesitation, Vincent threw his entire body across Nora and Lucy, acting as a human wall.

*BOOM.*

The shotgun blast struck Vincent’s right side and shoulder, shredding his jacket and tearing through flesh and muscle.

Vincent grunted, a sharp gasp of air tearing from his lungs as the impact drove him into the dirt. Yet, despite the devastating hit, he raised his left hand, leveled his pistol, and put two rounds cleanly through the shooter’s chest. The man dropped dead on the bricks.