The night I brought my pregnant mistress into our Manhattan mansion, I expected my wife to scream.

The rain intensified, pounding against the concrete of the Swiss runway.

I stood between Eleanor and the men aiming rifles at us, my mind racing through a thousand impossible calculations.

Arthur Vance, the man I had left bleeding in the snow back in New York, had somehow beaten us to Europe.

"You didn't fly commercial, Arthur," I noted, trying to buy even a fraction of a second. "How did you get here before us?"

Arthur chuckled, walking slowly around our small, trapped group.

"You always underestimated my resources, Lucian. I didn't stay on that frozen tarmac in Teterboro. The moment your plane took off, I boarded a supersonic charter. I've been waiting for you for two hours."

He looked at Eleanor, his eyes filled with absolute venom.

"You really thought a senior FBI director would communicate exclusively through encrypted emails and burner phones for three years without ever demanding an in-person meeting?" Arthur mocked.

Eleanor was shaking, her hands resting protectively over her stomach.

The brilliant, flawless trap she had built to secure her child's future had just become our execution chamber.

"You fabricated the entire federal case," Eleanor whispered, realizing the depth of her fatal error.

"I didn't fabricate anything," Arthur corrected smoothly. "I used your forensic accounting skills to gather every shred of real evidence needed to destroy Lucian. But those files aren't going to the Justice Department."

He snapped his fingers, and one of his tactical operators stepped forward, pulling a heavy steel briefcase from the back of the nearest SUV.

"I am selling your unredacted ledgers back to the rival cartels," Arthur explained. "They are paying me a hundred million dollars for the absolute proof they need to seize all of Lucian's abandoned territories without sparking a gang war."

"And what happens to us?" I demanded, already knowing the answer.

"You disappear," Arthur said coldly. "The cartel wants your head on a spike, Lucian. And they want your wife and unborn child eliminated to ensure no legitimate heirs can ever claim the Moretti fortune."

Victor shifted his weight beside me.

I didn't have to look at him to know he was preparing to draw his weapon. Victor was a survivor, but he also had a code. He wouldn't let them slaughter a pregnant woman on an open runway.

"Don't do it, Victor," Arthur warned, noticing the subtle movement. "You have one pistol. I have six men with automatic rifles."

"Six men who think they're getting paid," Victor countered, his voice steady as a rock.

Arthur frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Victor offered a grim, bloodthirsty smile.

"Mrs. Moretti drained the cartel's forty million dollars," Victor reminded him. "You think these mercenaries are going to wait around for a wire transfer from a guy who just lost his primary funding?"

It was a bluff. A beautiful, desperate bluff.

The tactical operators hesitated for just a microsecond, glancing sideways at Arthur to gauge his reaction.

That microsecond was all Victor needed.

Victor drew his weapon with blinding speed, firing two shots into the chest of the closest operator before the man could pull his trigger.