I collapsed in front of my eight-year-old twins, and while one called 911, the other phoned Griffin Drake—the most feared mafia boss in Seattle and the father they had never met. One innocent question exposed the secret I had buried for eight years, but Griffin’s answer revealed something even worse: he already knew someone had been hunting us.

Before Hazel could spell out the words on the envelope, the front door of the house rattled under a heavy, calculated blow.

Bang. Bang.

"Mommy said not to open it unless it's the paramedics!" Iris yelled from the hallway, backing away from the entryway as the deadbolt groaned.

"It's Griffin," Hazel shouted toward her sister, her eyes fixed on the black envelope resting among the blueprints. She brought the phone back to her ear. "Mister—Griffin! Men are at the door! They're banging on it!"

"Step away from the door, Hazel," Griffin’s voice snapped through the speaker, cold as arctic iron. "Let them in. Those aren't paramedics. Those are my men. My advance team. They will secure the perimeter before anyone else touches the house."

Before Hazel could move, the heavy oak front door didn't just open—it shattered inward. The reinforced brass strike plate splintered off the frame as a pair of massive, broad-shouldered men in tailored charcoal suits stepped into the hallway. They moved with the terrifying, synchronized efficiency of apex predators, their jackets parting just enough to reveal the matte-black holsters strapped beneath their arms.

Iris screamed, dropping to her knees and pulling Hazel behind her.

The lead operative, a scarred giant with a buzzcut and eyes like shards of granite—a man Sloan’s subconscious dimly recognized from old security briefings as Viktor, Griffin’s personal head of security—raised a gloved hand. He didn't draw a weapon, but his presence filled the narrow corridor like a wall of concrete.

"Hold your fire, sector four clear," Viktor spoke into a comms unit clipped to his lapel, his gaze sweeping the living room before locking onto the home office doorway.

He caught sight of Sloan lying motionless on the floor, flanked by scattered papers and coffee stains.

"Target located. Medical status: unresponsive," Viktor reported into his radio. Then, his eyes shifted to the two terrified girls huddled by the hallway wall. Without missing a beat, he tapped his earpiece. "Boss. The girls are unharmed. They're with me."

Through the open phone speaker, still clutched in Hazel’s trembling hand, Griffin’s voice crackled, cutting through the chaos like a whip.

"Viktor. Put me on speaker."

The giant operative stepped forward, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. He knelt down in front of Hazel, his expression softening just enough to keep the children from bolting, though the lethal readiness never left his posture. He gently reached out, taking the smartphone from Hazel’s numb fingers, and pressed the speaker icon.

"Boss. I'm listening," Viktor said.

"Get Sloan out of that house now," Griffin’s voice boomed through the speaker, carrying the raw, unadulterated fury of a hurricane. "Use the armored SUV. Take her to St. Jude’s private wing. Dr. Vance is already on standby. If she loses consciousness for another minute, I’ll hold every single one of you personally responsible."

"Understood, Boss. And the children?" Viktor asked, casting a cautious glance at the twins.

"Bring them with us," Griffin commanded without a moment’s hesitation. "They are not staying in that house for another second. Someone left a message."

Viktor’s face hardened instantly, a dark shadow passing over his scarred features. "Valenti?"

"The black envelope," Griffin said, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that promised a slow, agonizing retribution. "They knew where she lived. They knew about the girls. They played their hand too early."

As Viktor moved to scoop Sloan’s limp body into his arms—handling her with a surprising, practiced gentleness that contrasted sharply with his brutal efficiency—Hazel grabbed the edge of his suit jacket.

"Wait! The letter! Mom’s desk!" Hazel pointed frantically toward the black envelope.

Viktor paused, his keen eyes locking onto the matte-black paper resting beneath the ruined coffee mug. He didn't touch it with his bare hands. Instead, he pulled a clean silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, carefully lifted the envelope by its corner, and slid it into an airtight evidence pouch he pulled from his inner coat pocket.

"Good catch, little one," Viktor muttered, his voice rough. He looked down at Iris and Hazel. "Stay close to me. We're going for a ride."

Twenty minutes later, the convoy of three black, bulletproof Cadillac Escalades tore through the rain-slicked streets of Seattle, running red lights with the impunity of an armored division.

Inside the middle vehicle, the atmosphere was thick enough to suffocate. Sloan lay stretched across the back leather bench seat, an IV line already taped to the back of her hand by a combat medic Griffin’s team had brought along. Her breathing was shallow, her face deathly pale against the black leather headrest, but the acute spike of her migraine had subsided into a dull, throbbing ache beneath heavy sedatives.

Hazel and Iris sat huddled together in the jump seats opposite her, wide-eyed and silent, staring out the reinforced windows at the grey Seattle skyline blurring past.

In the front passenger seat, Viktor held a secure satellite phone, connecting the secure vehicle network directly to the penthouse suite of the Drake Tower.

"Boss," Viktor said into the encrypted line. "We have her stabilized. Medics have her on oxygen and IV fluids. We're five minutes out from St. Jude's."

"Is she awake?" Griffin’s voice came through the encrypted speaker, echoing softly in the luxurious cabin of the SUV.

"Not yet, sir. The sedatives are keeping her under, but her vitals are leveling out." Viktor glanced back at the two girls, then lowered his voice slightly. "The envelope is secured in a bio-shield pouch. I'll hand it to you the second we dock."

"Burn every square inch of that house," Griffin commanded, his voice cold, flat, and absolute. "Scrub the neighborhood cameras. Find out who dropped that envelope, and I want their names, their families, and their bank accounts by midnight."

"Consider it done, Boss."

"And Viktor?" Griffin paused, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. "Are the girls alright?"

Viktor looked across the aisle at Hazel and Iris. Hazel met his gaze with a defiant, defensive tilt of her chin that mirrored Griffin’s own posture so perfectly it sent a chill down the hardened operative's spine.

"They're fine, sir," Viktor reported softly. "They've got your eyes, Boss. Both of them."