The rain-slicked streets of Boston blurred into long, red ribbons of brake lights as Vincent drove his heavy, armored SUV up the winding road toward the northern hills.

Claire stepped up beside Vincent at the window, looking down at the army arrayed against them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but looking at Vincent’s profile, she saw no panic—only an ancient, terrible calm.

“He thinks he has us trapped,” Claire whispered.

“Arthur Vance always was terrible at military tactics,” Vincent said, turning to Dominic. “Did you activate the secondary perimeter when we arrived?”

Dominic smiled—a wide, terrifying grin that showed all his teeth. “Activated fifteen minutes ago, Vince. Marco and the Southie boys are sitting two blocks away with forty guys.”

Vincent tapped his earpiece. “Marco. Close the net.”

Down on the street, Arthur Vance raised his wrist to look at his gold Rolex. “Thirty seconds, Vincent! Don't let your sentimentality for a secretary destroy everything your grandfather built!”

Inside the four-story brownstone, Claire looked at the metallic hardware drive in her hand. “Vincent, if they breach the front entrance, I can wipe the drive remotely from my phone—”

“You’re not wiping anything,” Vincent said, reaching out to cup her neck gently. “That money is your trust fund now. And those logs are going to hang Arthur Vance.”

Suddenly, the roar of heavy engines shattered the morning silence.

From both ends of Commonwealth Avenue, six massive commercial dump trucks—belonging to Moretti Construction Logistics—rammed through the police barriers and smashed directly into Vance’s fleet of black vans.

CRASH!

Metal squealed, glass exploded, and several of Vance’s mercenaries were thrown to the pavement as the heavy dump trucks sealed off the entire block like steel coffins.

Immediately, dozens of Moretti enforcers poured out from the alleys, side streets, and surrounding brownstones, opening fire on Vance’s panicked mercenaries.

The street erupted into absolute chaos. Automatic gunfire echoed through the foggy avenues of Back Bay like thunder.

Down on the pavement, Arthur Vance screamed as his private security team was swallowed up in the crossfire. He scrambled backward toward his damaged van, his face wild with sudden, blinding panic.

“Dominic, secure the lobby,” Vincent ordered, his voice echoing authoritatively over the gunfire outside. “I’m going down to collect our lawyer.”

“Vincent, wait!” Claire called out, grabbing his arm.

Vincent stopped, looking down at her hand on his sleeve.

“Be careful,” she whispered, her blue eyes wide with genuine worry.

Vincent leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against hers in a brief, fierce kiss that tasted of iron, coffee, and promises. It was the first time he had ever kissed her, and the sudden warmth of it left Claire breathless, her knees weak.

“Wait here,” Vincent murmured against her lips. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

He turned and strode out of the apartment like a god of war descending into the underworld.

Claire stood by the smashed desk, holding the hardware drive against her chest, her heart hammering wildly as the gunfire outside slowly began to diminish.

Two minutes later, the gunfire stopped completely.

Silence returned to Commonwealth Avenue, save for the crackle of burning tires and the distant wail of Boston police sirens miles away.

The front door of Unit 4B opened.

Vincent walked back inside. His submachine gun was gone. His black shirt was slightly wrinkled, and there was a small speck of blood on his cheekbone, but his eyes were clear, dark, and triumphant.

Behind him, two Moretti enforcers dragged Arthur Vance into the room.

Vance was on his knees. His tailored coat was torn, his silver hair disheveled, his nose bleeding profusely. He looked up at Claire, his eyes filled with a mixture of terror and utter humiliation.

“Claire...” Vance rasped, coughing up blood onto her Persian rug. “Please... tell him... tell him we can make a deal... I’ll give you the Zurich accounts...”

Claire stepped forward, standing right in front of the kneeling lawyer. She looked down at the man who had ordered her forced off the road, who had tried to break her arm and leave her for dead in a rain-soaked ditch.

She didn't scream. She didn't hit him.

She simply held up the hardware drive between two fingers.

“The books are closed, Arthur,” Claire said, her voice dropping into the icy, precise tone she used when firing an incompetent vendor. “And you’ve been liquidated.”

Vincent stepped behind Vance, placing a hand on the old lawyer’s shoulder, pressing down until Vance’s forehead touched the floor.

“Dominic,” Vincent said, looking out the window toward the approaching police lights. “Take Mr. Vance to the harbor warehouse. Make sure he signs over every corporate asset, every property deed, and every off-shore account to Miss Bennett before the sun sets.”

“And after that?” Dominic asked quietly.