She thought she could easily silence a helpless nanny, until the terrifying footsteps of the mafia boss echoed from the shadows behind her.

The heavy emergency lockdown shutters slammed down over the conservatory windows, cutting off the daylight and plunging the corridor into flashing amber hazard lights.

“Go!” Victor roared, drawing a customized Kimber .45 from the holster hidden beneath his cashmere sweater.

Lily didn't waste time screaming. Instinct, sharp and feral, took over. She clutched Ethan tightly against her chest, ducking low as the distant sound of automatic gunfire erupted from the south gardens.

Ethan began to cry, the sudden blaring sirens terrifying him.

“Shh, baby, I’ve got you. Lily’s got you,” she whispered against his hair, sprinting down the grand hallway toward the master study.

Behind her, Victor and Dominic moved with military precision. Victor racked the slide of his weapon, his expression carved from stone. “Dominic, take the east staircase. Flush them toward the courtyard. I want Julian Montigue brought to me alive. The daughter... execute on sight.”

“Copy,” Dominic barked, sprinting toward the fire escape.

Lily reached the master study, slamming the heavy mahogany door shut and engaging the brass deadbolt. She rushed behind the massive oak desk, her fingers flying over the hidden panel concealed beneath the carved wood molding. She punched in the six-digit code Victor had made her memorize two weeks ago.

The false bookcase clicked open, revealing the reinforced steel blast door of the inner panic room.

Just as she stepped across the threshold, the heavy glass of the study’s bay windows exploded inward in a shower of deadly shards.

Lily threw herself forward into the safe room, her body shielding Ethan as shattered glass rained down against her back. A sharp sting sliced through her upper arm, warm blood instantly soaking her sleeve, but she didn't stop. She hit the interior console, and the hydraulic steel door began to hiss shut.

Through the narrowing gap, two men in black tactical gear and balaclavas dropped through the shattered window into the study, assault rifles raised.

Between them stepped Serena Montigue.

She was unrecognizable. Her fine silk was gone, replaced by a mud-splattered utility jacket. Her face was bruised, her hair wild and tangled, her eyes burning with a manic, unhinged fury that bordered on demonic. In her hand, she carried a snub-nosed revolver.

“Lily!” Serena shrieked, spotting the closing blast door. “Give me that brat!”

Serena sprinted across the study, raising her gun.

Lily didn't cower. Standing inside the safe room, holding Ethan securely with her uninjured arm, she locked eyes with the woman who had terrorized this house.

“Rot in hell, Serena,” Lily said coldly.

The heavy steel blast door slammed shut with a deafening hydraulic thud, the magnetic locks engaging with the force of three tons of hardened armor.

Outside the door, bullets pinged harmlessly against the exterior steel plate.

Inside, the panic room was soundproof, equipped with independent air filtration, medical supplies, and live security monitors displaying every sector of the mansion.

Ethan was sobbing hysterically, trembling against Lily’s neck. Lily collapsed against the padded bench, breathing hard, her blood dripping steadily from her arm onto the tiled floor.

“You’re safe, Ethan. We’re safe,” she whispered, rocking the boy back and forth. “Your father is coming. He’s coming.”

She turned her eyes to the monitors.

On the third screen, which displayed the master study directly outside the safe room door, Serena was frantically banging on the steel console with the butt of her revolver, screaming silently at the reinforced camera.

Then, the study door swung open.

Serena’s two hired mercenaries turned their rifles toward the entrance, but they were already dead.

Victor Blackwood entered the room like a specter of absolute annihilation.

He didn't take cover. He fired with surgical, terrifying precision. Two shots. The first mercenary crumpled instantly, a clean hole through his visor. The second mercenary managed to raise his weapon, but Victor closed the distance in two predatory strides, grabbing the barrel of the rifle, redirecting the burst into the ceiling, and driving the heel of his combat knife straight upward beneath the man’s jaw.

The mercenary dropped like an empty sack.

Serena spun around, her gun shaking wildly in her hand. She aimed it straight at Victor’s chest.

On the monitor, Lily watched in breathless terror. Victor didn't stop walking. He didn't even raise his gun. He walked straight toward the barrel of Serena’s revolver, his face an expression of pure, unadulterated death.

Serena pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The gun had jammed.

Victor stopped six inches from her. With terrifying calm, he reached out, his hand wrapping around the cylinder of her revolver, crushing her fingers against the metal until she screamed and dropped the weapon.

He didn't shoot her. He caught her by the hair, dragging her face down onto the mahogany desk where glass shards were scattered like diamonds.

Through the internal intercom speaker mounted on the panic room wall, Victor’s voice came through, cold, crystal clear, and entirely devoid of human mercy.