Someone Attacked My Estate Minutes After I Recognized the Baby’s Locket—Then We Found Her Photo Had Been Sent From Inside My Own House.

The blizzard outside the Hudson lodge reached its peak as four heavy black boats cut through the icy waters of the Hudson River, landing quietly on the rocky shore beneath the cliff.

Inside the safehouse, Victor stepped into the central security room where Marcus was pulling tactical gear from a wall safe.

"How many men did Marcone bring?" Victor asked calmly, strapping a tactical holster over his black suit.

"At least twelve," Marcus estimated, checking the magazine of an automatic rifle. "They’re ascending the cliff trail right now. They think we only have three guards on the property."

Victor turned to look at the reinforced steel door leading to the subterranean panic vault beneath the lodge floor. "Take Hannah and Lily down into the vault, Marcus."

Marcus paused, looking at his boss in surprise. "Boss? You're staying up here alone?"

"I’m not alone," Victor replied, a dark, dangerous smile touching his lips. "I have twenty of my New York strike team waiting in the treeline behind them."

Down in the subterranean panic vault, Hannah sat on a comfortable velvet bench, holding baby Lily securely against her chest. The vault was a fortified room built into the solid granite cliff, equipped with independent air filtration and communication monitors displaying the live camera feeds from above.

On the central monitor, Hannah watched as the heavy timber front doors of the lodge were kicked inward.

Don Marcone—a ruthless sixty-year-old syndicate leader in a heavy fur coat—stepped into the living room, flanked by six armed mercenaries.

Victor stood waiting in the center of the room, standing tall in his black suit, his hands resting casually in his pockets, completely unbothered by the weapons pointed at his chest.

"Victor Moretti," Marcone sneered, raising his silver pistol. "You brought the baby to a wooden cabin on a river. You made this too easy."

"Did I?" Victor asked smoothly.

Victor raised his hand and snapped his broad fingers twice.

The floor-to-ceiling glass windows behind Marcone shattered inward as eight of Victor’s elite tactical enforcers dropped from the roof rafters on rappelling lines, their automatic weapons raised.

Within five seconds, every single mercenary in Marcone’s strike team was disarmed and forced to their knees on the hardwood floor.

Marcone’s silver pistol clattered onto the rug. His face went deathly pale as he looked into Victor’s ice-blue eyes.