“Why did you accept this job?” Adrian Vale asked. His voice was low, smooth, and laced with an edge that could slice through granite.

“You’re trespassing, Victor,” Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stood on the wide stone steps of his mansion. He didn't pull his weapon, but the two armed guards at his sides shifted into defensive positions.

Victor Vance chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Trespassing? Between old friends? Don't be so dramatic, Adrian. We have business. The docks in Brooklyn. The shipments coming in from Marseille next week. You’ve been distracted lately... soft. Spending all your time hiding in this country fortress with four bratty orphans.”

Behind the reinforced glass of the front door, Evan’s hands tightened into fists against Nia’s apron. “He’s a bad man, Miss Nia,” Evan whispered, his voice trembling with real fear. “He came here two years ago when Dad was hurt. He yelled at us.”

Nia placed her hand on Evan’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Stay behind me, all of you. No matter what happens.”

Outside, Adrian took one slow step down the stairs, closing the distance between himself and Victor. “My family is off-limits. You know the rules of the council, Victor. You bring violence to my front door, and every boss from Boston to Miami will put a price on your head.”

“Rules?” Victor sneered, stepping closer until he was mere feet from Adrian. “Rules are written by men who are too old to fight. The council is weak, Adrian. And you’re weaker. You lost your wife, and you lost your spine. I’m taking the Brooklyn routes. If you resist, well... accidents happen to big houses in the woods.”

One of Victor’s men shifted his hand toward his jacket.

In a move so fast it defied human sight, Adrian grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it down with bone-cracking force, disarmed him, and had the man’s own weapon pressed firmly beneath Victor Vance’s chin before anyone else could react.

Victor’s remaining three henchmen immediately drew their guns, pointing them straight at Adrian’s chest. Adrian’s guards drew theirs, aiming at Victor’s men.

A deadly, Mexican standoff froze the cold afternoon air.

Inside the foyer, six-year-old Luke let out a small whimper of terror.

Adrian stared straight into Victor’s eyes, his expression completely devoid of fear. “I give you ten seconds to get off my property, Victor. If your men pull those triggers, you die first. I guarantee it.”

Victor stared at the cold steel pressed into the soft skin beneath his jaw. He could see the absolute darkness in Adrian’s eyes—the conviction of a man who had nothing left to lose except the people inside that house.

Victor swallowed hard, his arrogance faltering for a split second. “Lower your weapons,” Victor ordered his men through gritted teeth.

Slowly, the henchmen backed away toward the SUVs.

Adrian lowered the gun, shoved Victor backward, and stood his ground like a stone titan. “If I see your face near my gates again, Victor, there won't be a conversation.”

Victor straightened his coat, his eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred. “This isn't over, Vale. You can't protect them forever.”

Victor got into his SUV, and the three vehicles sped down the driveway, kicking up gravel before crashing through the iron gates out onto the main road.

Adrian stood on the porch for a long moment, watching the gates close automatically. Then he turned and walked back inside the mansion.

The moment he crossed the threshold, his eyes locked onto Nia and the four boys huddled together in the hall.

For the first time since Nia had arrived, Adrian looked visibly shaken—not by fear for himself, but by the horrific realization of what his world was exposing these children to.

“Pack your bags, Nia,” Adrian said softly, his voice heavy with defeat as he walked past them toward his study. “It isn't safe here. I’m sending you and the boys to a secure safehouse in Vermont until I handle this.”

“No,” Nia said loudly.