By the time Grace Walker realized every man in the courtyard had stopped talking, the estate gates had already closed behind her.

The storm raged all night as they drove north, the heavy rain hammering against the armored windshield of the SUV.

By four o'clock in the morning, the highway gave way to narrow, winding country roads lined with overgrown pines and abandoned farmhouses. Grace knew every curve of this road. It was the path she used to ride on the back of her father’s rusty pickup truck when he took her into town for ice cream.

"Turn left at the ruined silo," Grace directed quietly.

Luca turned the vehicle down an unpaved gravel driveway completely hidden by wild blackberry bushes and drooping pine branches.

At the end of the driveway stood the small, single-story wood-frame house where Grace had spent her childhood. The roof was collapsed on the left side, the porch steps were rotted, and nature had aggressively reclaimed the front yard.

Beside the house stood the old woodworking workshop—a towering barn made of weathered red cedar.

Luca killed the SUV’s headlights, plunging them into total darkness.

"Stay close to me," Luca instructed, drawing his suppressed sidearm as he stepped out into the rain.

Grace got out, her fingers buried in Titan’s collar. The giant dog sniffed the damp night air, his tail giving a single, subtle wag as he recognized the scent of the soil beneath his feet.

They walked cautiously toward the rear of the workshop.

Standing fifty yards behind the barn was the massive, charred stump of the fallen white oak tree, half-covered in moss and thick ivy vines.

Grace knelt beside the ancient wood, her heart pounding against her ribs. She cleared away the wet leaves and dirt, revealing a thick iron ring set deep into the center of the wooden stump.

"This is it," Grace whispered.

Luca knelt beside her, shining his flashlight onto the iron ring. He wiped away the grime, revealing a keyhole carved in the exact shape of an oak leaf.

Grace pulled the silver key from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely align the metal.

"Take a breath, Grace," Luca said gently, placing his hand over hers to steady her grip. "We do this together."

Grace looked into his dark, steady eyes, finding a sudden anchor of strength in his presence. She nodded, guided the silver key into the lock, and turned it clockwise.

A heavy, mechanical CLACK echoed from deep beneath the earth, followed by the grinding sound of ancient iron gears turning against stone.

The top section of the wooden stump swung open on hidden hydraulic hinges, revealing a concrete staircase leading down into a lit, climate-controlled subterranean bunker.

And standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding an antique brass lantern, was a tall, silver-haired man with kind, familiar blue eyes.