The explosion came through the news feed first.Blake stood in Sterling estate's command center, watching multiple screens cycle through traffic cameras and security footage. The Henderson Tunnel had been quiet for thirty seconds—the tactical team moving in, securing prisoners, celebrating victory.Then the screen went white.Pure incandescence, followed by rolling smoke. When the image cleared, the tunnel entrance had collapsed into rubble. Concrete chunks the size of sedans blocked what used to be a roadway.Emma's hand found Blake's arm, gripped tight enough to hurt."Sam was still in there," Blake said. His voice sounded distant, mechanical. "Sam and thirty-one agents."The screens multiplied. News helicopters catching the story, zooming in on devastation. Emergency vehicles converging, sirens wailing. Reporters shouting over each other, trying to make sense of chaos."—explosion of unknown origin—""—multiple casualties reported—""—tunnel completely collapsed—"Blake was moving

Blake stared at the address written in Viktor's precise handwriting.Pier 47. Abandoned shipyard on the waterfront. The kind of location where bodies disappeared and nobody asked questions."It's a trap," Robert said. Unnecessary statement. Everyone in the room knew it."Of course it's a trap." Blake set the note down carefully. "Viktor wants me isolated. Vulnerable. Exactly where he can control the situation.""Then you can't go!" Robert's voice climbed, desperation bleeding through. "Son, please. We'll find another way. Hire private security. Bring in specialists. Something."Victoria sat in the corner, hugging herself, face still streaked with soot. "This is my fault. He used me as bait. I should've been more careful—""Stop." Blake moved to kneel beside her. "Viktor would've found a way regardless. This isn't about you. It's about him and me. Always has been."Emma paced the room like a caged predator. "We bring in military support. Special forces. Treat this like the terrorist si

Viktor's knife came at Blake's throat like a snake strike.Blake twisted left, felt the blade miss by centimeters, the air displacement cold against his neck. His counter-strike was too slow—Viktor had already moved, circling, looking for the next opening.Blake's side screamed where Lillian's knife had gone in weeks ago. The wound had healed but not fully, scar tissue pulling tight with every movement. He was fighting at seventy percent while Viktor operated at full capacity.Not good odds.Viktor feinted high, went low. The knife slashed across Blake's thigh, opening fabric and skin. Pain exploded up his leg but Blake didn't retreat. Couldn't. Retreat meant death.He drove forward instead, caught Viktor's knife arm, tried to break the wrist. Viktor laughed and used Blake's momentum against him, throwing him into a stack of rusted metal barrels.Blake's ribs protested on impact. Something cracked—not broke, but close. He rolled away as Viktor's boot came down where his head had been,

Emma's hands trembled as she stared at the email.Six more brothers. All knowing about the baby. All coming.She forwarded it to Sam before her brain fully processed what she was doing. Three seconds later, her phone rang."I need thirty minutes." Sam's voice was tight, controlled. "Don't delete anything. Don't respond. Let me trace this."Emma watched Blake sleep, chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of exhaustion. Part of her wanted to wake him immediately. Part of her wanted to let him have this moment of peace before the world collapsed again.The choice was taken from her when Blake's eyes opened twenty minutes later."Emma?" His voice was rough from sleep and pain. "What's wrong?"She showed him the email without speaking.Blake read it twice. His expression went from confusion to comprehension to something cold and terrible Emma had never seen before."Six brothers," he said flatly. "Viktor wasn't lying.""Sam's tracing it now."Blake pushed himself upright despite t

The psychiatric facility's common area smelled like industrial cleaner and broken dreams.Madam Mary sat in a plastic chair, staring at walls painted institutional beige. Three months into her sentence. Three months of watching everything she'd built crumble into nothing.Footsteps approached. Another inmate being escorted to the common area.Madam Mary looked up and froze.Lillian.Her daughter stood there, thinner than Madam Mary remembered, wearing the same prison-issued clothing, hair pulled back from a face that had aged years in months. Their eyes met across the room.Recognition. Then something harder.Lillian moved first, crossing the space with mechanical precision. Sat across from Madam Mary without asking permission."Mother.""Lillian." Madam Mary's voice was cold. "This is your fault. All of it. If you hadn't been so obsessed with destroying Blake—""My fault?" Lillian's laugh was sharp, brittle. "You're the one who pushed me to marry him! Who spent three years telling me