The moment my twin daughters started screaming in the middle of the night, I was certain the new nanny had failed them

The 40th-floor boardroom of the Caruso Global Tower was a masterpiece of glass, steel, and corporate intimidation.

When I stepped off the private elevator at 10:00 a.m. sharp, the thirty board members seated around the mahogany table fell into immediate, terrified silence.

Marcus Vance sat near the center, looking polished in a bespoke Italian suit, though a faint sheen of nervous sweat glistened on his forehead.

"Adrien," Marcus forced a tight smile, standing up smoothly. "We were just reviewing the quarterly shipping projections—"

"Save the performance, Marcus," I interrupted, walking slowly down the center aisle.

I didn't draw a weapon. I didn't need to. The sheer weight of my presence was enough to make three junior executives push their chairs back in panic.

I stopped right beside Marcus’s seat, slamming a printed copy of the Cayman Islands wire transfer onto the polished wood.

Marcus stared at the paper, and the color drained completely from his face.

"You sold our manifest routes to Salvatore," I said quietly, my voice echoing off the glass walls. "You traded eight years of loyalty for half a million dollars of blood money."

Before Marcus could stammer out a defense, the heavy double doors of the boardroom burst open with a deafening crash.

Six armed men wearing tactical black ski masks and holding submachine guns poured into the room, led by Salvatore himself—a broad-shouldered, scarred brute with a predatory grin.

"Well, well, well," Salvatore laughed, raising his weapon toward my chest. "Looks like we caught the great Adrien Moretti with his pants down. No enforcers, no bodyguards, just a lonely boss ready for retirement."

The board members screamed, diving beneath tables and scrambling for cover.

I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my hands. I slowly turned my head to look at Salvatore, a cold, humorless smile touching my lips.

"You think I came here alone, Salvatore?" I asked calmly.

Salvatore’s grin faltered. "What are you talking about?"

At that exact second, the overhead lights in the boardroom clicked off, plunging the room into absolute darkness, save for the gray city light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Bang-bang-bang.

From the ventilation shafts and the private elevator core, flashbang grenades detonated with blinding white light and deafening concussive force.

Before Salvatore’s men could regain their bearings, Luca and my tactical enforcers—who had rappelled down the exterior glass facade from the roof—swarmed through the windows, neutralizing the threat in less than thirty seconds.

Salvatore was thrown hard against the mahogany table, Luca’s tactical boot pressing firmly against his chest, a Glock pressed directly between his eyes.

I walked over slowly, standing over my rival as he gasped for air against the shattered glass.

"You thought I was weak, Salvatore," I whispered, leaning down. "You thought grief had made me soft. But you forgot one simple rule of the underworld."

"What's that?" Salvatore choked out, blood trickling from his nose.

"A wolf protects his den above all else," I said, signaling Luca. "Take him to the harbor. We're done talking."