The first crack was loud enough to stop a hundred conversations. For one breathless second, the crystal chandeliers continued glittering as though nothing had happened.

The quiet morning calm of the Mercer estate shattered into absolute chaos within ninety seconds.

Downstairs, the heavy iron security shutters slammed downward over the ground-floor windows with a deafening metallic roar. Alarms wailed across the sprawling acreage, warning that the perimeter had been breached by hostile forces.

Up on the fourth floor, Clara stood by the window watching three black SUVs tear across the manicured front lawn, kicking up mud and turf before screeching to a halt right in front of the grand double doors.

Doors flew open. Men in heavy tactical gear, armed with assault rifles and wearing ballistic vests, spilled out onto the gravel driveway. At the center of them was Leo Hastings, holding a heavy-caliber pistol, his face twisted in a mask of alcoholic rage and wounded family pride.

“They brought a private militia,” Clara whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Dominic, there are twenty of them, and your guards are stationed across the perimeter—!”

“My guards are right where they need to be,” Dominic interrupted calmly. He walked over to a heavy steel wall safe hidden behind a wood-paneled bookshelf, spun the combination dial with practiced ease, and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol along with two extra magazines.

He checked the chamber with a sharp, metallic click, then slid the weapon into his shoulder holster beneath his vest.

He turned around, seeing the nervous tension gripping Clara’s shoulders.

“Stay right here in this room,” Dominic commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. “Lock the security deadbolts. Do not open this door for anyone except Calvin or myself. Do you understand?”

“I’m not hiding in a bedroom while people are trying to murder you downstairs!” Clara snapped, stepping forward, surprising even herself with her fierce defiance. “I spent six months hiding in this house, Mr. Mercer. I’m done running.”

Dominic stared at her for a long, hard second. A fierce, predatory glint flashed in his dark eyes—not anger, but deep, undeniable respect.

He reached down, opened a secondary compartment in the wall safe, and pulled out a compact, lightweight Walther pistol, checking the safety before holding it out toward her.

“Can you shoot?” Dominic asked.

Clara looked at the weapon in his hand. Her father had been a hunter in the rural hills of East Tennessee; he had taught her how to handle a firearm before she was old enough to drive.

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the cool, textured grip of the pistol, feeling its lethal weight.

“Better than Leo Hastings can throw a punch,” Clara said coldly.