The house at midnight was a creature of a thousand breathing sounds—the heavy settling of timber, the distant hum of the climate control system, the faint, ghostly scratching of ancient ivy against the exterior stonework of the east wing.

The snow outside was stained dark with oil, smoke, and blood by the time the gunfire finally ceased.

Fifteen minutes of coordinated defense from the carriage house had turned into a rout. Marco’s traps—remote-detonated flash charges and localized security lockdowns—had split Vance’s strike team into isolated pockets, making them easy targets for a father fighting for his son and a man defending his home.

The heavy oak doors of the carriage house creaked open, letting in a swirl of freezing Vermont wind.

Dominic stepped out into the courtyard, his rifle held ready, his boots crunching in the trampled snow. Marco followed closely behind, dragging a heavily armed, groaning syndicate enforcer by the collar of his tactical vest.

Standing near the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the smoking wreckage of two black SUVs, was Victor Vance himself.

Vance was older, his silver hair dusted with snow, an expensive cashmere coat thrown over a bulletproof vest. He held a pistol loosely in his right hand, but his expression wasn't one of triumph—it was the bitter, desperate glare of a cornered animal.

"You're late, Dominic," Vance sneered, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "Evelyn’s plan was foolproof. You should have stayed in your study and let us take the empire clean."

"Evelyn is tied up in the basement," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he raised his SIG Sauer, locking the laser sight directly onto the center of Vance’s chest. "And you are standing on my property without an invitation."

"Property?" Vance laughed bitterly. "You think this estate, this syndicate, these mountains belong to you? Without my shipping lanes in Boston, your entire operation collapses by Monday morning."

"Then let it collapse," Dominic replied.

Before Vance could raise his weapon, a sharp crack echoed from the carriage house doorway.

Clack.

Leo stood in the doorway, holding a heavy iron wrench he had picked off the workbench, his eyes locked on Vance with a cold, piercing intensity that mirrored his father's exactly.

"He's lying, Dad," Leo called out across the snow, his voice carrying clearly through the crisp night air. "He has a radio behind his back. He's calling for backup."

Vance’s face drained of color. He started to swing his pistol upward toward the doorway, but Dominic moved faster than thought.

Bang.

The bullet struck the snow an inch from Vance’s right boot. Dominic’s second shot blew the pistol right out of Vance’s hand, sending it spinning across the frozen courtyard.

Marco lunged forward, tackling Vance to the ground with bone-crushing force, slamming his face into the snow and slapping heavy steel cuffs around his wrists.

"It's over, Victor," Dominic said, walking slowly forward until he stood over his rival. "The house is clean."

As Marco dragged Vance away toward the secure perimeter holding cells, Dominic turned around and walked back toward the carriage house.

Elena was waiting in the doorway with Mia in her arms. Leo stood right beside them, looking up at his father without fear, without hesitation, without silence.

Dominic dropped his weapon to the snow, walked up to his son, and dropped to one knee. He pulled Leo into his arms, burying his face against the boy's shoulder, holding him so tightly his entire frame trembled.