His Shy Secretary Fell Asleep on the Mafia Boss’s Shoulder, and the Order He Gave Next Made Every Man on the Jet Go Silent Everyone on the private jet thought Caitlyn Elmore had just made the last mistake of her life.

The penthouse erupted into absolute chaos. The deafening roar of automatic gunfire shattered the massive glass windows, sending cascades of sparkling shards raining down onto the streets below. Damian and Vincent fired with lethal, calculated precision, dropping the first wave of mercenaries before they could even step fully into the room.

Caitlyn crouched beneath the heavy mahogany desk, ignoring the terrifying sounds of bullets tearing through the drywall and shattering expensive artwork. She kept her eyes glued to the glowing screen of her laptop. The progress bar for the financial transfer crept agonizingly slowly across the screen.

35% Complete.

"Push left!" Damian commanded over the noise, providing covering fire while Vincent shifted his position to flank a mercenary trying to sneak around the shattered glass wall.

Caitlyn hacked deeper into The Commission's main servers, systematically tearing down their firewalls. She watched as millions of dollars in illicit funds were completely wiped from their Cayman Island accounts, instantly redistributed into a thousand different legitimate charities, shell companies, and federal holding accounts. She was performing a digital miracle, effectively dismantling a century-old mafia syndicate with nothing but keystrokes.

60% Complete.

"Boss, they are bringing up a heavy machine gun in the hallway!" Vincent yelled, ducking as a hail of high-caliber bullets shredded the marble pillar he was hiding behind.

Damian pulled a localized EMP grenade from his tactical vest—a prototype developed by Hamilton Tech. He pulled the pin and hurled it perfectly through the ruined doorway. The grenade detonated with a silent, blinding flash of blue light. Every electronic scope, laser sight, and communication radio the mercenaries carried instantly fried, throwing the attackers into total confusion.

85% Complete.

Caitlyn’s fingers were cramping, but she didn't stop. She routed the final remaining billion dollars directly into an anonymous trust explicitly designed to fund Noah's clinic and hundreds of other special-needs facilities across the country. The Commission's blood money was finally going to heal people instead of hurting them.

"Almost there!" Caitlyn shouted over the ringing in her ears.

Suddenly, a lone mercenary managed to slip past the defensive line through the smoke. He spotted Caitlyn under the desk and raised his weapon, ready to eliminate the source of the financial hack.

Damian saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn't have time to aim his rifle. He dropped the weapon, drew his custom pistol, and fired three rapid shots while sprinting directly across the open room. The mercenary dropped instantly, but a stray bullet clipped Damian's side, tearing through his tactical vest.

Damian grunted in pain, stumbling slightly before bracing himself against the edge of the desk.

"Damian!" Caitlyn screamed, abandoning the keyboard to grab his arm.

"Finish it!" Damian ordered through gritted teeth, ignoring the blood seeping through his shirt. "Do not stop!"

Caitlyn turned back to the screen with tears in her eyes. She slammed her finger onto the 'Enter' key with absolute, furious finality.

100% Complete. Transfer Successful.

The screen flashed a brilliant green. The Commission’s bank accounts officially read $0.00.

Caitlyn reached over and pressed a pre-programmed button on Damian's secure phone line. The signal bypassed the jammed cellular networks and sent a massive, encrypted data dump directly to the servers of the FBI Director in Washington D.C., containing undeniable proof of every single crime The Commission had committed over the last twenty years.

"It's done," Caitlyn gasped, helping Damian slide down to the floor behind the desk. "They are bankrupt. The FBI has the files."

A sudden, eerie silence fell over the penthouse. The remaining mercenaries outside the door had received panicked messages on their surviving burner phones. The money was gone. Their contracts were void. There was no one left to pay them.

Within seconds, the sounds of heavy footsteps retreating down the stairwells echoed through the building. The mercenaries were fleeing the sinking ship.