Mia Callaway had been inside the DeLuca estate for less than a day when she found the death threat.

Within three minutes, the firefight was over.

All six Ferretti mercenaries were disarmed, zip-tied, and forced down onto their knees in the center of the courtyard under the glare of the security floodlights. DeLuca guards moved through the scene, securing weapons and clearing the perimeter.

Carlo ran out from the side entrance, looking wide-eyed at Mia, who was leaning against the stone fountain, holding an ice pack against her swollen ankle.

"Are you insane?!" Carlo shouted, though his voice was filled with sheer awe. "You jumped off a second-story balcony!"

"The angle was bad for a clean shot," Mia said simply, taking a breath. "And the glass door wouldn't have held against a breach charge."

Matteo came sprinting down the stairs, pushing past two guards. He ran straight to Mia, grabbing her by her shoulders, his hands trembling slightly as he inspected her face.

"Are you hurt? Did you get shot?" he demanded, his voice laced with pure panic.

"Just my ankle," Mia said, offering a small, weak smile. "I told you my feet are unreliable."

Matteo stared at her, then let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, pulling her into a brief, tight embrace right there in the middle of the rain-soaked courtyard. "You are completely crazy, Callaway."

"I am effective," she corrected, leaning into his warmth for a brief second before pulling back professionally.

Lorenzo DeLuca walked slowly out of the mansion, flanked by two senior bodyguards. He looked at the six captured mercenaries kneeling on his stone driveway, then at the disarmed breaching charge sitting in the fountain.

He walked over to Mia.

The old mafia patriarch stood before the young female guard for a long, silent moment. The rain glistened on his silver hair.

"You saved my son," Lorenzo said, his voice deep and gravelly. "And you saved my home."

"I did what I was hired to do, Mr. DeLuca," Mia replied cleanly.

Lorenzo turned to Carlo. "Put these men in the holding rooms. Call Marco Ferretti’s personal line. Tell him I have his primary strike team, and if he wants them back, he will sign the port territory agreements by noon tomorrow."

"Yes, boss," Carlo said, turning to coordinate the guards.

Just as the guards began hauling the mercenaries up, the lead hitman—the one Mia had tackled near the fountain—suddenly spat blood onto the stone and laughed darkly.

"You think you won, old man?" the mercenary wheezed, looking at Lorenzo. "You think Gavin was the only bird Marco bought in this cage?"

Mia’s eyes instantly widened. She looked at Carlo, then at the guards, her photographic memory replaying every interaction from the past twelve hours in a split second.