Three blocks after pretending to leave for Chicago, I ordered my driver to stop and secretly returned to my own mansion because I believed my housekeeper might be manipulating my daughters. What I found instead was far worse for my conscience: the quiet maid I had nearly decided to fire knew more about keeping my little girls alive than their own father did.

The scream tore through the silent mansion like a gunshot.

Without a second thought, I shoved past Patricia, vaulting across the mahogany desk and sprinting toward the grand staircase with Marcus right on my heels. My heart hammered violently against my ribs—not with the adrenaline of a cartel shootout, but with the primal, suffocating terror of a father whose worst nightmare was unfolding in real-time.

I took the stairs two at a time, bursting through the double doors of the second-floor nursery.

The scene inside made my blood run instantly cold.

Avery was huddled in the corner near the bookshelf, sobbing hysterically and clutching her knees to her chest. Sophie was lying on the rug near her bed, curled into a tight ball, gasping for air as a severe asthma attack locked her small lungs.

And in the center of the room stood Clara, fighting off a masked intruder who wielded a heavy, professional-grade tactical stun baton.

"Get away from her!" Clara screamed, lunging forward with fearless desperation, slamming a heavy brass lamp directly into the intruder’s shoulder.

The masked man grunted, swinging the stun baton in a brutal arc that caught Clara across the ribs, sending her crashing hard against the mahogany dresser. She gasped in pain, sliding to the floor, but immediately scrambled back toward Sophie, shielding the trembling little girl with her own body.

"Marcus!" I bellowed, drawing my sidearm in a fluid, practiced motion.

Marcus vaulted into the room behind me, his own weapon leveled with deadly precision. But the intruder was fast—he threw a heavy smoke canister onto the nursery carpet, filling the room with thick, blinding white vapor in seconds.

"Boss, watch out!" Marcus shouted, firing two controlled shots through the smoke toward the balcony doors.

Glass shattered. Heavy footsteps pounded across the stone terrace outside as the assassin leaped over the second-story railing into the gardens below.

I didn't give chase. My priority wasn't the ghost fleeing into the courtyard—it was my family.

I dropped to my knees beside Sophie, whose face was turning dangerously pale as she fought for every breath. Panic clawed at my throat, threatening to paralyze me. In the underworld, I knew how to handle bleeding wounds, broken bones, and tactical extractions. But a child suffocating in an asthma attack stripped away all my power.

"Ethan! Give me the rescue inhaler from the top drawer of the nightstand—now!"

Clara’s voice cut through the panic like a laser beam. Despite the bruise forming visibly across her ribs and the blood trickling from a cut on her forehead, she wasn't crying. She was entirely focused, her hands steady as she cradled Sophie’s head in her lap.

I scrambled to the nightstand, ripped the drawer open, grabbed the blue inhaler, and thrust it into Clara’s trembling hands.

Clara immediately administered two puffs into Sophie’s mouth, holding a spacer device in place, murmuring soothingly into her ear. "I’m right here, Sophie-bear. Look at my eyes. Breathe with me... in... and out... you're safe."

Within thirty agonizing seconds, Sophie’s frantic chest movements began to slow. The terrifying whistling sound in her lungs subsided, and she let out a ragged, exhausted sob, burying her face in Clara’s shoulder.

I knelt beside them, my hands shaking as I reached out to touch Sophie’s hair. My fingers brushed against Clara’s arm. She flinched slightly, her dark eyes meeting mine. There was no fear in them anymore—only an unyielding, fierce protection that put my entire security detail to shame.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice uncharacteristically rough.

Clara nodded slowly, wincing as she shifted her weight. "I... I’ll live. But Avery was the target."

My head snapped up. "What?"

"The man didn't come in through the window to rob us," Clara said, her voice dropping to a tense whisper as she pointed toward Avery’s desk. "He was cutting the security wiring behind Avery’s art easel. When I walked in to check on them, he tried to silence me."

I stood up slowly, the blood roaring in my ears.

Downstairs in the foyer, Patricia Hale was waiting.

Or at least, she was supposed to be waiting.

When Marcus and I rushed back down the grand staircase to secure the perimeter, the front doors were wide open.

Patricia’s emerald-green Chanel coat lay abandoned across the marble bench.

Her car was gone.