For two hours the nursery was pure chaos. Bottles, baths, rocking, changing — nothing worked. Then little Sophie in the yellow lace dress stepped onto the rug.

At 1:15 AM, Lake Shore Drive was slick with black ice, rain sweeping across the dark waters of Lake Michigan.

The high-rise at 1400 Lake Shore Drive was an exclusive, thirty-story glass-and-steel tower catering to billionaire hedge-fund managers, foreign dignitaries, and shadow syndicate heads. The penthouse suite occupied the entire top floor, accessible only by a private keycard elevator.

In the alleyway behind the building, a sleek, matte-black SUV sat idling in the darkness, its headlights off.

Inside, I sat in the rear leather seat, wearing a tailored charcoal suit, adjusting my black leather driving gloves. Beside me sat Marco, holding a suppressed submachine gun, while two of my most trusted enforcers—Gabe and Anton—checked their sidearms in the front seats.

"Elevator feed is bypassed, boss," Gabe reported from behind a rugged military laptop. "The building’s security guard on the ground floor just took a forty-minute nap courtesy of a quiet knockout compound in his thermos. We have ten minutes before the system resets."

"Is Victoria alone?" I asked.

"She’s got four Vane guards inside the penthouse," Gabe replied, pointing to a thermal readout on his screen showing five heat signatures on the thirtieth floor. "Three in the living room, one at the door, and Victoria in her private office near the balcony."

I pulled a small velvet bag from my pocket and set it on my lap. Inside were three things: the silver token, the acoustic disruptor, and a sleek, high-grade military flashbang grenade.

"We go up clean, we drop the guards, and I speak to Victoria alone," I instructed. "No unnecessary noise."

"Understood, boss," Marco said, pulling his black ski mask down over his face.

Thirty seconds later, the four of us stepped into the private express elevator in the basement garage. Gabe slid a cloned security keycard into the scanner. The digital display illuminated in bright red numbers: G, 5, 10, 20, 30.

The ride up was silent, save for the hum of the cables pulling us upward through the darkness.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open directly into the foyer of the penthouse.

The Vane guard standing near the marble entry hall barely had time to turn his head before Marco stepped out of the elevator, driving the butt of his weapon into the man's temple. The guard crumpled to the floor without making a sound.

Gabe and Anton fanned out to the left, slipping into the open-concept living area where two more armed guards were watching a sports game on a massive wall-mounted television. Two quiet bursts from their suppressed weapons dropped both men onto the plush white carpeting before they could even reach for their holsters.

The fourth guard emerged from the kitchen corridor, drawing his weapon, but Marco stepped forward, grabbing the man's throat and slamming his head back against the marble pillar until his eyes rolled back into his head.

In less than forty-five seconds, the penthouse was secure.

I stepped across the immaculate white marble floor, my polished leather shoes clicking softly, until I reached the double frosted-glass doors leading to Victoria Vane’s private office.

Inside, I could see the silhouette of a woman sitting at a glass desk, her yellow cashmere coat hanging on a brass coat rack beside the window, an expensive glass of red wine in her hand as she read through a paper file.

I didn't knock. I turned the brass handle and walked inside.

Victoria Vane looked up instantly. She was a striking woman of thirty-six, with sharp features, dark red hair styled in an elegant bob, and cold, calculating gray eyes.

She froze, her glass of wine hovering halfway to her lips, as she saw me step into the room, followed by Marco, who locked the double doors behind us.

She didn't scream. She didn't panic. She was a Vane; she had been raised in the same brutal underworld I had.

"Adrien," she said smoothly, setting her wine glass down on the desk with a delicate click. "To what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit at one in the morning?"

I pulled off my leather gloves, dropping them onto her desk.