Nola watched in heartbreak as her stepmother Ottoline ripped open the seam of her handmade fabric rabbit

A sudden, concussive boom shattered the night air outside.

It was not thunder. It was the heavy, twin-throated roar of high-performance marine engines surging to full throttle, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic crackle of automatic rifle fire echoing across the black water.

From the northern point of the harbor, a blinding column of white halogen light pierced the darkness—the heavy searchlight of a Coast Guard patrol cutter bearing down on the two black speedboats at thirty knots, sirens wailing in the distance.

Tracer rounds began to streak across the bay, red and green lines skipping off the dark chop of the waves like burning stones.

In the wine cellar below the ballroom, the muffled, hysterical screams of Ashcombe and Ottoline beat against the heavy reinforced oak, their fists pounding uselessly against a door that would not open until federal marshals arrived at dawn.

Lachlan stood at the center of the dark ballroom, completely still, holding his sleeping granddaughter against his heart.

He did not flinch at the sound of the gunfire. He did not look at the sirens strobing against the glass dome. He had seen empires rise and fall on these docks; he had buried his brothers, his competitors, and his beloved wife.

He looked down at the handmade rabbit in Nola’s limp, sleeping fingers.

The navy stitches he had set were tight, clean, and unyielding, holding the silk together against the storm outside.

A shadow appeared at the terrace entrance.

Thorne stepped inside, holding a secure satellite phone, the screen pulsing with a green, unencrypted transmission from an unknown frequency in Palermo.

"Mr. Ashcombe," Thorne said, his voice tense, his eyes darting to the glass doors. "The boats in the harbor were a diversion."

Lachlan didn't turn around. His gaze remained fixed on the dark water.

"Speak," Lachlan commanded.

"A convoy of four black armored Suburbans just breached the outer gate on the highway," Thorne whispered, his hand drifting to his weapon. "They’re not Castiglione men. They carry the seal of the Commission in New York. The message says: The father pays the debts of the son."

Lachlan tightened his arm around Nola, feeling the steady, fragile rhythm of her breath against his neck.

With his free hand, he reached into his overcoat, drew his heavy automatic pistol, and pulled the hammer back with a cold, deliberate snap that echoed through the vast, dark house.

"Thorne," Lachlan said, his voice flat as an open grave.