The first thing seven-year-old Sophie Ellis did when she entered Vincent Rowan’s private library was break the only rule in the house that even grown men were afraid to test.

The fragile peace inside Rowan House was shattered violently three days later.

It was late afternoon when the estate’s security alarm began wailing—a shrill, piercing electronic shriek that automatically locked down the perimeter gates and triggered red strobe lights across the exterior walls.

In the private study, Vincent dropped his pen instantly. He reached for his secure encrypted tablet, bringing up the exterior camera feeds.

At the main wrought-iron gates of the estate, two black SUVs were idling. A package wrapped in black butcher paper had been tossed onto the stone pillar, accompanied by a spray-painted message across the gate bars in crimson industrial paint: YOUR TIME IS UP, ROWAN.

Vincent’s blood ran cold.

He didn't care about the threat against himself. He cared about the cameras panning toward the staff quarters where Mara and Sophie were currently having lunch.

Within seconds, the secure comms line buzzed on his desk.

“Boss,” Prescott, his head of security, barked urgently. “Marcus Vane’s crew. They didn't try to breach the house; they left a calling card. But our digital sweeps show they intercepted your staff registry this morning. They know Mara Ellis and her daughter are inside.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened until a muscle snapped. The cold, ruthless syndicate boss who had buried his brother and fought his way to the top of Philadelphia’s underworld surged to the surface with terrifying force.

“Lock down the interior panic protocols,” Vincent ordered, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “Move Mara and Sophie to the secure subterranean suite immediately. No one leaves this estate. And Prescott?”