The war room was quiet except for the soft hum of servers and the occasional click of Sable's keyboard. Ethan stood before the holographic display, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the web of connections that stretched across the screen. Isabella Vieri's face dominated the center, a woman in her late twenties with sharp features and colder eyes, the daughter of a crime lord who had ruled Sicily's underworld for decades. Around her, lines of influence radiated outward: the Vieri crime family, their known associates, their suspected operations. Sable stood beside him, her gray eyes scanning the data. "Isabella Vieri. Oxford graduate. Fluent in Italian, English, French, and Spanish. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket. On paper, she's a philanthropist and art enthusiast. In reality, she's her father's most trusted envoy and, according to our sources, his most dangerous weapon." "Dangerous how?" Ethan asked. "She's been linked to at least three political assassinations

The war room had become a second home for Sable and Donald. They worked side by side, their laptops open, their conversations quiet and focused. The investigation into Isabella Vieri had intensified over the past week, and the evidence was mounting, circumstantial but alarming. Isabella had been photographed meeting with known Triad operatives in a private dining room at the Grand Metropolitan Hotel. She had been tracked to a warehouse on the docks, where Shadow Council intermediaries had been seen coming and going. She had been observed receiving encrypted messages on her phone, her expression cold and calculating. "She's not just an envoy," Sable said, reviewing the surveillance photos. "She's an active operative. She's been meeting with the Triad. She's been meeting with the Council. She's coordinating something." "But we don't have proof of what," Donald replied. "Everything we have is circumstantial. A photograph here. A meeting there. If we take this to the Board, they'll di

The Silvercrest Manor was a fortress preparing for war. Servants moved through the halls with quiet efficiency, polishing silver, arranging flowers, and setting tables for the diplomatic dinner. Security teams patrolled the grounds, their eyes scanning every shadow, every corner, every potential threat. The Black Division had been deployed in force, their operatives concealed among the staff, their weapons hidden beneath formal attire. And in the center of it all, Ethan Silvercrest stood in the war room, reviewing the final preparations. "The guest list is confirmed," Sable said, her voice brisk. "Forty-seven dignitaries from twelve countries. Ambassadors, ministers, business leaders. And Isabella Vieri, representing her father, Don Massimo." "She'll be sitting near the head table," Donald added. "Close enough to make a move during the toast. We'll have agents positioned throughout the room, but we can't risk a public confrontation. If we accuse her without proof, we risk a dipl

The ballroom was frozen. Isabella's knife pressed against Ethan's throat, the blade cold and sharp, a thin line of blood welling up where it touched his skin. The guests were paralyzed, dignitaries and ambassadors, their faces pale with terror, their bodyguards frozen in place. The Black Division had their weapons drawn, but they couldn't risk a shot. Not with Isabella using Ethan as a human shield. Sable was calculating. Her gray eyes never left Isabella's face, watching for the slightest opening, the smallest mistake. Donald was positioning himself behind Isabella, moving slowly, silently, like a ghost. His hand was inside his jacket, his fingers wrapped around the grip of a concealed pistol. But Ethan didn't need them. He had been trained for this. The memory surfaced, Sable's voice, calm and precise, during one of their early sessions. "The best weapon is the one they don't know you have. A blade concealed in your sleeve. A move they won't expect. If you're ever taken hostag

The Silvercrest Manor was quiet. For the first time in weeks, there were no emergencies. No assassination attempts. No kidnappings. No diplomatic crises. Just the soft hum of the heating system, the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, and the gentle crackle of the fire in Ethan's study. Ethan sat in his favorite armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames dance. Amelia was curled up on the couch across from him, a book open in her lap, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was wearing one of his sweaters, an old, worn thing that was too big for her, and she looked more peaceful than she had in months. "You're staring," she said without looking up. "I'm admiring," Ethan corrected. "Same thing." He smiled and set down his glass. "Amelia." She looked up. "Yes?" "I've been thinking. About us. About the future." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I don't want to wait anymore. I've spent months fighting, fighting for my family, fighting