The day I knelt beside my mother's grave with blood in my mouth and my unborn child beneath my hand, the senator's daughter slapped me so hard I saw stars. She thought I was carrying her husband's baby. She had no idea the child's father was the one man in Boston who could make powerful people disappear with a single phone call.

By midnight, Blackwood Manor was operating like a military command center.

Damon had moved me down to the secure underground communications vault—a reinforced concrete bunker beneath the estate equipped with encrypted terminals, satellite uplinks, and a direct line to his most trusted legal and intelligence teams.

Marcus stood near the heavy steel door, reviewing tactical maps of the South Boston harbor district, while two cyber-intelligence specialists clacked furiously at twin computer monitors.

I sat at a small leather desk in the corner, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, holding a cup of hot coffee Damon had insisted I drink.

Damon stood over the central console, leaning his weight against the polished metal, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The tension radiating off him was palpable—a coiled spring wound so tight it could snap at any second.

"Status on Moretti's digital footprint?" Damon asked without looking up from the monitor.

"We've traced the signal origin of Victor's call, Boss," one of the tech specialists answered crisply. "He’s operating out of a secure warehouse complex near the dry docks in South Boston. He has roughly twenty armed enforcers stationed inside, along with physical hard copies of the fabricated documents regarding Ruth Harper."

Damon’s jaw tightened. "Fabricated?"

"Confirmed," the specialist nodded, tapping a few keys. "We cross-referenced the serial numbers and ink stamps on the documents Victor threatened you with. They were forged three days ago by a low-level printer in Charlestown working for the Moretti payroll."

A cold, dark smile touched Damon’s lips.

"Amateur hour," Damon murmured. He turned his head toward Marcus. "Mobilize the union teams. I want every access road to the South Boston dry docks blocked by 2:00 a.m. No trucks in, no cars out. Seal the perimeter."

"And Victor?" Marcus asked, his hand resting on his sidearm.

"Leave Victor to me," Damon said softly. "I want a face-to-face conversation with my dear cousin about family history."

I stood up from the desk, walking over to Damon despite the doctor's orders. "Damon, you can't walk into a trap like that alone. If Moretti has twenty armed men—"

"Sarah," Damon interrupted, turning to me and placing both hands gently on my shoulders. His touch was an island of calm in the middle of a raging storm. "Victor doesn't understand power. He thinks power is holding a gun. He doesn't know that true power is owning the people who make the laws, the men who drive the trucks, and the bank accounts that pay his own enforcers."

He looked deep into my eyes.

"I am not walking into a trap. I am going to dismantle his entire organization before sunrise. And when I come back, this war will be over forever."

Before I could argue further, Damon leaned down and pressed a deep, fierce kiss to my forehead. Then, turning sharply on his heel, he walked out of the bunker, followed by Marcus and a dozen silent, heavily armed men.