Nobody entered my private bedroom without permission.

The black sedan tore through the drenched streets of the city, tires screaming against the slick asphalt as red traffic lights blurred past us. Khloe was pressed against the passenger window, her fingernails digging deep into the leather armrest, repeating the same fractured prayer under her breath.

"Please God, please let him be outside. Please let Mrs. Gable have grabbed him."

I kept my foot pressed flat against the accelerator, my mind calculating every angle with cold, ruthless precision.

The fire was no accident. The timing was too exact.

Ten minutes later, we rounded the corner of 4th Street.

The block was bathed in pulsing crimson and blue emergency lights. Thick, acrid black smoke billowed into the rainy night sky, masking the smell of the storm with burning drywall and scorched timber. Fire trucks blocked the entire intersection, hoses snaking across the wet pavement like giant reptiles.

Khloe didn't wait for the car to come to a complete stop.

She threw the passenger door open while we were still rolling.

"Khloe, wait!" I barked, slamming the gear into park and throwing my door open.

She was already running, barefoot on the freezing wet concrete, her wet skirt clinging to her legs as she pushed past the yellow police tape.

"Ma'am, get back! The structural integrity is compromised!" a firefighter shouted, reaching out to catch her shoulder.

"My nephew is in apartment 3B!" she screamed, thrashing against his grip with terrifying strength. "Leo! Leo!"

I caught up to her, grabbing her by both shoulders, pulling her against my chest. "Let the men do their work, Khloe. Look around. Look at the sidewalk."

Across the street, huddled beneath emergency foil blankets on the steps of a laundromat, were dozens of displaced tenants.

Khloe’s eyes scanned the crowd frantically. Suddenly, she gasped. "Mrs. Gable!"

She broke free from my hold and sprinted toward an elderly woman wrapped in an orange blanket, coughing into a handkerchief.

"Mrs. Gable! Where is he? Where's Leo?"

The old woman looked up, her soot-stained face crumpled in sheer panic. "Khloe... oh, thank God you're alive. A man came... an hour ago. Before the alarms went off. He had a key, Khloe! He said he was your brother-in-law. He had a court order and two men with him."

Khloe froze, the color dropping from her features like snow. "Julian."

"He said there was an emergency and you were in the hospital," Mrs. Gable wept, clutching Khloe’s hand. "Little Leo didn't want to go. He cried, Khloe. He dropped his little backpack on the stairs. Then ten minutes after they left, the basement exploded!"

I stepped up behind Khloe, my hand resting firmly on the nape of her neck to keep her from collapsing. "Did you see what they were driving, ma'am?"

The old woman blinked through her tears at me, recognizing my suit and the commanding edge in my voice. "A... a dark blue van. Commercial plates. It had a logo on the side—something with a crown."

"Crown Logistics," I said grimly. Vance’s front company.

Julian hadn't just come to rescue his son. He had walked right into Vance's trap, or worse, he had personally handed the child over to settle his debt.

Khloe turned to me. Her face was completely hollowed out by grief, but beneath the tears, a terrifying darkness settled into her hazel eyes.

"He sold him," she whispered, her voice dangerously calm. "Julian traded his own flesh and blood to save his skin."

"We don't know that yet," I said.

"I know Julian!" she spat, grabbing my forearms. "He never loved Clara, and he never loved that boy! He only kept Leo alive as an insurance policy! Vincent, you have to help me. I don't care what you do to me afterward. Put me in prison, shoot me for lying to you for two years, take everything I have—just get Leo back. Please."

I looked at the soot raining down on her shoulders. For twenty years, I had operated on cold logic. Favors were traded; debts were settled; liabilities were eliminated. Helping Khloe offered zero financial benefit to Costa Logistics. In fact, declaring war on Vance over a child would cost millions and likely spark a bloody gang war across the eastern seaboard.

Then I looked down at the sidewalk.

There, half-buried under a puddle of muddy water near the curb, lay a small, battered wooden toy boat. Hand-carved pine, painted with clumsy blue stripes. The kind of toy a father never buys, but an aunt with an art degree makes with love.

I bent down, picked up the dripping toy, and wiped the grime from its hull with my thumb.

"I'm not doing this for Julian," I said, looking Khloe dead in the eye as I handed her the toy. "And I'm not doing it for Costa Logistics. My family's blood runs in that boy's veins. Nobody touches a Costa. Nobody."

A flicker of hope ignited in her devastated eyes.

"Where would Julian go?" I asked.

Khloe clutched the wooden boat against her chest, her breathing shallow. "Julian was always vain. Even when he was hiding in Vermont, he couldn't stand cheap motels. He told Clara once that if everything went to hell, he'd wait out the storm at the St. Jude Marina clubhouse. He had a private suite leased under an offshore LLC."

"The marina is on Vance’s territory," I noted.

"Then that's where they took him," she said.

I took my phone out and dialed Paulie.

"Paulie," I said when he answered on the second ring. "Get the boys. Six cars, heavy artillery. Meet me at the St. Jude Marina in twenty minutes."

"Boss?" Paulie sounded stunned. "That's Vance's turf. If we roll in there with steel, it's open season."

"Then bring enough ammunition to close the season," I replied, ending the call.

I turned back to Khloe and opened the car door for her. "Get in."

She climbed into the passenger seat without hesitation. But as I pulled out into the street, my headlights illuminated a sleek black SUV parked three blocks down, idling quietly under the rain with its lights turned off.

Before I could react, the SUV swung out into the street, deliberately cutting off our rear. And up ahead, blocking the mouth of the boulevard, two more black town cars rolled into position.