Sylvie watched in heartbreak as Tavish’s fiancée Benedetta ripped a photograph of the toddler’s missing mother from an album, dropped it into a fountain, and cruelly whispered that it was just another secret and another piece of her mother.

Static crackled over the secure satellite line, accompanied by the distant, rhythmic thump of heavy helicopter blades and the sharp echo of unsuppressed automatic gunfire.

"Mr. Rookfield," Roman’s voice came through, loud and disciplined over the noise. "We breached the Blackwood compound at twelve-fifteen. Perimeter guards are neutralized. Administration building is secured."

Tavish’s hand tightened around the phone. "Did you find her?"

"We found the medical wing, sir," Roman answered, his tone shifting, tightening with tension. "We found her chart. But the room was cleared three hours ago."

The room seemed to freeze. Tavish did not move a single muscle, but the air around him became so toxic that Nathan instinctively took half a step backward.

"Explain," Tavish said, his voice dropping into pure ice.

"Julian had a secondary contingency, boss," Roman reported, shouting over the engine roar. "A private transport team arrived at nine o’clock with transfer orders signed by the state commissioner. They took Clara out through the back helipad before our convoy reached the county line."

"Where was the flight plan filed?"

"That’s the problem, sir," Roman said. "It wasn't a civilian flight. The transponder belongs to the Monticello syndicate out of Rhode Island. They’re running her south toward the industrial docks in Boston."

Tavish’s eyes locked onto the burning fireplace across the room.

"Dominic Monticello," Tavish murmured.

"Yes, sir," Roman said. "It looks like the Vance family didn't just owe money to the Corsicans. They traded Clara to Monticello to secure an alliance against the Rookfield empire. If Monticello holds your wife, he holds the leverage to force you to surrender the northern deep-water terminals."

"Hold the facility in Maine," Tavish commanded. "Secure the medical director. Take him to our secondary holding in Portsmouth. I want every document, every hard drive, every syringe logged and cataloged."

"Understood, Mr. Rookfield. What are your orders for the Boston transit?"

"I will handle Boston myself," Tavish said, and terminated the call.

He lowered the phone, turning his dark gaze toward Nathan.

"Nathan."

"Yes, boss?"

"Call the harbormaster in Boston," Tavish ordered, his voice smooth, terrifyingly calm. "Tell him the port of Boston is closed as of two in the morning. No tugboats move. No cranes operate. If a private helicopter approaches the perimeter of Pier 42, shoot it out of the sky with the anti-aircraft batteries on the roof of the sugar refinery."

Nathan blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second by the sheer scale of the order. "Tavish... that’s federal airspace. The Department of Homeland Security will mobilize within twenty minutes."

"Let them mobilize," Tavish replied, walking toward the bedroom door. "They will find Dominic Monticello’s bodies floating in the harbor before their helicopters can take off."

He descended the grand staircase to the main foyer.

In the warm kitchen, Sylvie was sitting at the heavy oak table, wrapped in an oversized gray sweater, holding a mug of warm milk with both hands. Thomas was standing beside her, slicing fresh apples onto a porcelain plate.

When the child saw Tavish enter, her eyes lit up with fierce, innocent hope.

"Daddy!" she called out, setting the mug down. "Did you find Mommy’s room?"

Tavish walked over, kneeling beside her chair. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the silver locket from the vault, and clasped it gently around Sylvie’s neck.

"I found it, sweetheart," Tavish said, his voice warmer than anyone in that house had heard it in a decade. "And Grandma left us a map."

"Are we going to get Mommy now?" she asked, clutching the silver locket with her small thumb.