The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway of Dante Moretti’s compound chimed twice. Two in the morning.

The sound wasn't thunder. It was low, concussive, and unmistakable—the sound of an industrial-grade explosive breaching a reinforced iron gate.

Dante was out of his chair before the echo had even faded. His hand swept inside his waistband, pulling a sleek, matte-black Glock 19 with practiced, lightning-fast efficiency.

“Rosa!” Dante shouted toward the pantry.

The silver-haired housekeeper appeared instantly, her face pale but completely composed. “I’m already on the panic room line, Dante. The secondary shutters are locked.”

“Good. Stay there.” Dante grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not bruising, pulling me toward the back hallway. “Move, Sophia.”

“How many?” I asked, keeping pace with his long strides without missing a beat.

“At least two vehicles,” Dante muttered, his eyes darting toward the security monitors mounted near the back exit. The screens flickered to life, showing billowing gray smoke rolling over the outer security cameras near the twelve-foot iron gates. Two black SUVs had rammed through the center bars, their reinforced bumpers crumpled against the twisted ironwork.

Men in tactical gear—black uniforms, ballistic helmets, no insignia—spilled out of the vehicles, rifles raised, moving with military precision toward the main house.

“They aren't local thugs,” I noted instantly, my eyes scanning the formation on the screen. “Bounding overwatch, staggered entry, suppressed assault rifles. That’s a private security contractor unit. The Veil’s cleanup crew.”

Dante glanced down at me, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his features. “You recognize their tactical formation?”

“My father trained in military intelligence before he went into corporate finance,” I said, pulling away from his grip as we reached the reinforced panic room behind the library. “And Damian Vale only hires ex-SAS or Tier-One mercenaries for jobs that require zero survivors.”

“Well,” Dante said, a dark, dangerous smile touching the corners of his mouth as he chambered a round into his pistol. “It’s a good thing they picked the wrong house to clean.”

He shoved me gently inside the steel-reinforced panic room, which was stocked with tactical gear, monitors, communication arrays, and enough weaponry to supply a small militia.

“Stay inside,” Dante ordered.

“No.” I stepped out of the doorway, blocking his path.

“Sophia, this isn't a poker game—!”

“I know the code to the perimeter mainframe,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through his protest with absolute, razor-sharp authority. “Victor kept his backup comms server linked to my old tablet. If you lock down the manual shutters now, they’ll just use thermal breaching charges on the southern wall. But if I loop the security feed to show an empty courtyard, your snipers on the east ridge can catch them in a crossfire.”

Dante stared at me. For three seconds, the entire world seemed to stop spinning.

Then he nodded once, stepped aside, and gestured toward the tactical console.

“Do it.”

I didn't hesitate. My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing firewalls, rerouting camera feeds, and turning the Moretti estate into a digital trap.