Two Mafia twins turned blue in the middle of dinner, and while three hundred pounds of armed security froze, the waitress was the only person who knew how to save them.

Damien didn’t raise his voice when he spoke, but every syllable carried the weight of a sledgehammer. Within twenty minutes of opening the envelope, the estate was in motion. Grant Mercer stood at attention by the study doors, his tactical vest buckled tight over a black tactical shirt, relaying commands to perimeter units stationed across the three-acre property. Down in the west wing, Leo had been securely moved into the reinforced panic suite alongside the domestic staff, blissfully unaware of the immediate threat but smart enough to follow protocol when Damien’s elite detail told him to pack a bag. Ellie walked down the grand staircase, her posture rigid, her medical scrubs replaced by a sharp black blazer that matched the seriousness of the hour. She didn’t ask Damien to stay behind; she knew him better than that. Instead, she walked straight up to his desk where he was strapping a tactical harness over his shoulders, her dark eyes flashing with the same unyielding fire that had caught his attention years ago. "If we’re hunting ghosts, Damien, we hunt them together," she said quietly, sliding a encrypted satellite phone into her pocket. Damien paused, his jaw tightening before a slow, grim smirk touched his lips. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her close for a hard, grounding kiss before he turned to face the war waiting for them outside the iron gates.