The villa's grand hall was a silent mausoleum of shattered glass and cold fear. The battle had paused, not out of fatigue, but out of a tactical checkmate. Vladimir was the centerpiece of the agony, his massive body slumped against the thick stone of the library door, defeated. His fierce roars for Damon had dwindled into painful, broken gasps. He was the Don of the Russian Mafia, frozen by the sound of his pregnant wife suffering five feet away.

I stood on the stairs, my eyes glued to the ...