The mechanical hum of the cathedral’s projection system vibrated through the stone floor like a low, ominous pulse.

The tropical heat hit me like a physical wave as the private Gulfstream landed on the secluded airstrip near Cartagena, Colombia.

It was forty-eight hours after the funeral. While the global financial markets had stabilized—DeLuca Global’s stock actually surging twelve percent following my investor address—Dominic had been living like a hunted animal, believing he was safe in his hidden mountain fortress.

I stepped down the aircraft stairs, wearing a practical light gray linen suit and sunglasses. Marcus Vance was waiting at the tarmac edge beside two heavily armed tactical vehicles.

"The villa is completely isolated, ma'am," Marcus reported as we climbed into the rear of the armored SUV. "Dominic arrived yesterday morning. He brought three local mercenaries to guard the perimeter wall. He believes no one knows he is there."

"Has he tried to access the offshore accounts?" I asked as the vehicle accelerated down the winding mountain road.

"He tried five times," Marcus chuckled softly. "Every transaction was rejected. You froze his secondary biometric codes yesterday. Right now, he is sitting on less than fifty thousand dollars in cash."

The drive up the mountain was intense, the dense tropical rainforest closing in on both sides of the narrow dirt track. After forty minutes, the high concrete perimeter walls of the DeLuca estate came into view, topped with security cameras and iron spikes.

The armored SUV didn't stop.

Marcus pulled out his tablet, entering a master override sequence. The heavy steel entry gates disengaged with a loud pneumatic hiss, swinging wide open to allow our convoy to roll straight into the grand courtyard.

Two local guards hired by Dominic rushed out of the guardhouse, raising their rifles. But the moment they saw Marcus’s elite security operators spill out of the SUVs with tactical precision, the mercenaries immediately threw their weapons onto the gravel, raising their hands in surrender. They weren't paid enough to die for a disgraced billionaire.

I stepped out of the vehicle, walking calmly toward the double front doors of the villa.

Inside, the grand living room was a disaster. Empty liquor bottles were scattered across the glass tables, dirty clothes were strewn over expensive leather sofas, and the air smelled of stale cigars and desperation.

Standing near the bar, holding a half-empty bottle of scotch and a small silver handgun, was Dominic.

He looked unraveled. His designer shirt was unbuttoned, his hair wild, his eyes bloodshot and crazed.

"Elena...?" Dominic stammered, his jaw dropping as I stepped into the room. He pointed the shaking gun at my chest. "How... how the hell did you find me?!"

I didn't flinch. I didn't stop walking. I stopped ten feet away from him, resting my hands comfortably in my blazer pockets.

"Victor built this house, Dominic," I said softly, my voice filled with cold pity. "Did you really think you could hide in a building whose deeds are registered in my name?"

"Get back!" Dominic screamed, his hand trembling so violently the gun wobbled in the air. "I swear to God, Elena, I’ll shoot you! I have nothing left to lose! You took my money! You took my company! You ruined my life!"

"You ruined your own life, Dominic," I replied, taking another slow step forward. "You killed your uncle out of greed. You betrayed your father out of weakness. And you traded me for a woman who sold you out to the federal prosecutors thirty seconds after she was handcuffed."

Dominic’s eyes widened. "Jessica... she talked?"

"She gave them everything," I said. "The Cayman accounts, the fake bills of lading, the wire transfers to Naples. You're facing life in a federal penitentiary without parole."