Chapter 11
The blaring sirens of the estate’s security system instantly shattered the fragile peace of the dining hall. The bright, cinematic lighting of the grand foyer had been entirely extinguished, replaced by the harsh, sweeping red strobes of the tactical alert system. Tristan did not freeze in panic. He had spent his life anticipating the day the violent reality of his world would breach his sanctuary. Moving with decisive speed, he handed the sleeping Maisie to Audrey. "Take her," Tristan commanded, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure, lethal calm. "Go to the subterranean panic suite. Do not open the door until I come for you." Audrey’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she nodded, holding the little girl tightly against her chest. "Be careful," she whispered. Tristan offered a single, sharp nod before turning toward the grand marble staircase, bathed in the flashing crimson light. He had shed his tailored suit jacket, standing only in his crisp white dress shirt and dark trousers, a customized, suppressed automatic rifle held effortlessly in his tattooed hands. Marcus, the massive head of security, stepped out from the shadows of the corridor. "Boss. Perimeter sensors indicate a coordinated breach on the eastern and southern walls. Multiple heavily armed hostiles. It’s a professional strike team." "Who sent them?" Tristan asked. "Intel suggests it's Arthur Shaw's elite mercenaries," Marcus reported grimly. "They’re retaliating immediately." Tristan’s cold, intimidating eyes narrowed into dark slits. The Shaw syndicate was foolish enough to believe that a coordinated assault on his home would break his resolve. They had severely miscalculated the monster they were dealing with. "They breached the outer wall, they die in the gardens," Tristan commanded softly, the controlled pauses in his speech echoing with absolute authority. "Do not let a single hostile set foot on my marble floors. Move out."
