# NO DOCTOR COULD EXPLAIN WHY THE MAFIA BOSS’S SON WAS DYING—THEN THE HOUSEKEEPER’S THREE-YEAR-OLD FOUND ONE PACKET SEWN INSIDE HIS PILLOW

The clock struck noon.

In a penthouse suite overlooking the harbor, Viktor Volkov stared at his encrypted satellite phone. The screen remained black. Vivian had missed her check-in. The sleeper agent was burned.

Volkov, a massive man with a scarred jaw and cold, dead eyes, crushed the phone in his massive hand and threw it against the wall. "Mobilize the strike teams," he barked to his lieutenant. "Duca knows. Hit the estate. No survivors. Bring me Lorenzo's head, and burn the boy in his bed."

Back at the Duca estate, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, flooding the manicured lawns and washing out the gravel driveways. Lorenzo stood in the main security control room on the ground floor, watching the perimeter camera feeds. He had recalled every loyal soldier in the city. Fifty heavily armed men, the elite guard of the Duca family, were stationed at chokepoints throughout the mansion.

"They're coming," Lorenzo said, his voice calm, projecting absolute authority to his men. "They think we are weak. They think my grief made me soft. Today, we remind the Volkovs why this city belongs to the Ducas. Nobody breaches the sub-basement. Nobody gets near my son. Am I clear?"

"Clear, Boss!" the men shouted in unison, racking the slides of their assault rifles.

At 1:15 PM, the perimeter alarms shrieked.

Three armored black SUVs smashed through the reinforced wrought-iron gates at the front of the estate, ignoring the heavy gunfire from the gatehouse guards. The vehicles skidded to a halt on the wet grass, and two dozen Volkov mercenaries poured out, armed with military-grade weaponry and flashbang grenades.

Simultaneously, a secondary strike team breached the rear gardens, using explosive charges to blow open the glass doors of the conservatory.

The battle for the Duca estate had begun.

Lorenzo stepped out of the control room, a heavy tactical vest strapped over his black suit, an M4 carbine rifle in his hands. The marble corridors, usually echoing with silence, erupted into a deafening cacophony of automatic gunfire, shattering glass, and screaming men.

Lorenzo moved with lethal precision. He had been a soldier before he was a Don. He flanked a group of Russian mercenaries pushing through the grand foyer, dropping three of them with controlled bursts before they even realized he was there. The marble floors became slick with blood and rainwater.

"Push them back to the gardens!" Lorenzo roared over the gunfire, directing his men. "Hold the grand staircase! Do not let them reach the upper floors!"

Despite Lorenzo’s ferocity, the Volkovs had the numbers. Wave after wave of heavily armed men pressed into the mansion, using smoke grenades to blind the defenders. The air grew thick with cordite and plaster dust.

Down in the sub-basement, sealed behind layers of steel and concrete, Sarah Carter sat on the floor, holding her daughter tightly against her chest. Emma had her hands clamped over her ears, tears streaming down her face, terrified by the muffled, rhythmic thumping of explosions echoing from above.

Across the room, Mara Quinn ignored the battle raging above her head. She was frantically adjusting the IV drip, watching Lucas’s monitors. The boy was seizing, his small body convulsing as the Prussian Blue dragged the heavy metals out of his tissues.

"Hold on, Lucas," Mara whispered, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Just hold on. Your father is fighting for you up there. You have to fight down here."

Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the panic room shuddered violently. A massive explosion rocked the foundation, raining concrete dust down onto the medical bed.