The words hung in the air between us, small, fragile, and absolutely devastating.

The iron gates of my Long Island estate were already twisted and smoking when my SUV tore up the circular driveway.

Flames were licking eagerly out of the second-floor windows of the west wing, casting a hellish, orange glow across the manicured lawns and marble fountains. Thick, acrid black smoke billowed into the night sky, obscuring the stars.

I killed the engine, grabbed my tactical shotgun and a heavy fire-axe from the back compartment, and sprinted toward the burning front doors.

The heavy oak doors were electronically bolted from the inside—Julian’s final security measure to ensure no firefighters could interrupt his escape.

Without hesitation, I swung the heavy steel head of the fire-axe into the wood paneling right beside the biometric lock. Crack. Crash. Wood splinters flew in every direction. With a violent kick, the door caved inward, and a wall of choking heat and smoke rushed out to greet me.

"Julian!" I roared, pulling my respirator mask over my mouth and nose as I plunged into the burning inferno of my own home.

The marble floors were slick with soot. The priceless oil paintings lining the hallway were already curling and blackening under the intense heat. I moved with lethal efficiency, navigating the smoke-filled corridors from memory alone.

I reached the grand staircase. The wooden banister was fully engulfed in flames, sending glowing embers raining down like a fiery snowstorm.

I didn't care. I leaped over the burning railing, hitting the second-floor landing with a heavy thud, and charged down the hallway toward the master guest suite.

The door to Julian’s suite was locked from the outside using a magnetic deadbolt.

I raised the fire-axe and brought it down with all the fury of a betrayed husband and an enraged father. Once. Twice. Three times. The heavy mahogany panel split down the middle, and I drove my boot through the center, shattering the lock mechanism completely.

I kicked the door wide open.

The room was bathed in the red strobe light of the emergency fire suppression system. The computer terminals on the mahogany desk were sparking and smoking, their hard drives physically destroyed by acid-dripping drill bits Julian had activated before fleeing.

And standing by the private balcony doors leading out to the garden, suitcase in hand, was Julian.

He froze, turning around slowly to face me through the hazy smoke. He looked surprised for a fraction of a second, before a cold, sarcastic smirk returned to his lips.

"Well, look who made it through the fire," Julian coughed, adjusting his soot-stained lapel. "I have to hand it to you, Dominic. Your stubbornness is truly legendary."

"It's over, Julian," I said, leveling the barrel of my Sig Sauer directly between his eyes. The safety clicked off with a sound that cut cleanly through the roar of the flames. "The servers are backed up. Your confessions are logged. And you're not leaving this room alive."

Julian laughed—a dry, raspy sound that turned into a coughing fit from the thick smoke.

"You think you can just shoot me and walk away?" Julian sneered, taking a step toward the balcony. "Think about the headlines, brother. Billionaire Dominic Russo murders brother in estate fire. The SEC, the federal prosecutors, the board of directors... they'll tear your empire apart brick by brick. They'll take your daughters away and put them in state custody because you're a violent, unstable animal."

He was right, in a cold, calculated way. If I killed him here, in cold blood, I would fall right into the final trap he had set for me. I would lose everything—including my children.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Julian," I said quietly, lowering the gun just an inch.

Julian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Oh? Then what's stopping me from walking out that door?"

"This."

From the shadows behind him, a sleek, tactical drone hovered silently into the room, its high-definition lens blinking with a steady blue recording light, broadcasting every word he had just spoken directly to Marcus’s secure server—and to the federal email accounts of the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York.

Julian’s face turned the color of ash. He spun around, lunging for the drone, but it zipped upward out of his reach.

"You son of a bitch..." Julian hissed, turning back to face me with raw hatred contorting his features. He reached inside his jacket, his hand flashing toward a concealed shoulder holster. "If I'm going down, you're coming with me!"

He drew a silver-plated Walther PPK and raised it with professional speed.

He didn't hesitate. But neither did I.

Before his barrel could level toward my chest, my finger squeezed the trigger.

Bang.

The shot echoed like a thunderclap through the burning room. Julian’s shoulder spun backward as the bullet caught him cleanly in the rotator cuff, shattering bone and sending his pistol clattering across the marble floor.

He let out a sharp cry of agony, stumbling backward against the glass balcony doors.

I walked toward him slowly, the flames roaring around us like a chorus of vengeful ghosts. I grabbed him by the lapels of his ruined Brioni suit, hauling him up until his feet barely touched the floor, and drove my fist square into his jaw.

Julian went limp instantly, collapsing onto the soot-stained carpet like a broken doll.