They dragged my maid into the middle of my mansion and called her a thief in front of my entire staff—but when a pendant slipped from beneath her collar, I realized the accusation was a setup. She wasn’t just a servant. She was the last living witness to the massacre that destroyed my family fifteen years ago.

“Stay here,” I ordered Elena, my hand dropping to the holster beneath my left arm, where my Sig Sauer P226 rested against my ribs.

“Lorenzo, no!” Elena cried, grabbing my sleeve. “It’s a trap! If you go out there—”

“If I stay here, we’re fish in a barrel,” I said, gently but firmly removing her hand from my arm. I drew the pistol, racking the slide with a sharp, metallic snap that echoed in the quiet room. “Titan!”

The massive Doberman sprang up from the doorway, his muscles bunching, his eyes locked onto mine with absolute, unwavering obedience.

“Heel. Guard,” I commanded.

Titan moved to the side of the sofa, standing over Elena and Mia like a living statue of black marble and muscle.

I opened the study door and stepped out into the darkened hallway.

The amber emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows across the imported Persian rugs and the gilded oil paintings of my ancestors. The air smelled faintly of ozone and cordite—the unmistakable signature of a tactical breaching charge.

Moving with the silent, fluid grace of a man who had trained with elite private contractors for a decade, I hugged the wall, my weapon raised, my senses dialed to absolute maximum.

From down the corridor, near the intersection leading to the basement stairs, came the sound of heavy combat boots crunching on shattered glass.

“Clear the left flank!” a harsh voice snapped in clipped military cadence.

“Got movement by the service elevator!” another replied.

I rounded the corner just as two operatives in matte-black tactical gear, wearing night-vision goggles flipped up on their helmets, emerged from the cross-hallway. They were dragging a heavy canvas bag between them—and from the shape of it, and the gray hair trailing out the bottom, it was Renata.

They hadn't freed her. They were executing her.

“Target compromised!” the lead operative yelled, spotting me instantly and snapping his carbine toward my chest.

I didn't hesitate.

My pistol barked twice—a sharp, deafening roar in the enclosed hallway.

The lead operative staggered backward, his tactical vest absorbing the first round, but the second caught him cleanly beneath the visor of his helmet, dropping him instantly.

His partner dropped Renata’s body and swung his rifle around, but before he could acquire his target, a black blur shot past my shoulder from the shadows of the alcove.

Titan.

The Doberman hit the second operative like a missile, sinking his jaws into the man’s forearm with a bone-crunching snap. The operative screamed, dropping his rifle as he clawed desperately at the dog’s neck.

I closed the distance in two strides, bringing the heavy butt of my Sig Sauer down hard against the side of the man’s helmet.

He went down limp, unconscious before he hit the marble floor.

Heavy panting filled the hallway. I lowered my weapon, my chest heaving, and looked down at Renata.

She lay sprawled near the base of the grand staircase. A single clean bullet wound pierced her temple. They hadn't come to rescue her; they had come to tie up loose ends. The syndicate didn't leave liabilities behind, not even for twenty years of loyal service.