A LITTLE GIRL THREW HERSELF IN FRONT OF A MAFIA BOSS'S SUV TO SAVE HIM - THEN HE LEARNED THE TICKING UNDER HIS CARS WASN'T THE REAL TRAP

The tension in the room was palpable, a single twitch away from a massacre. Vincent’s ten bodyguards stood their ground, their weapons still aimed at the FBI tactical team, who in turn had their rifles locked onto Vincent’s chest.

"Tell your men to drop their weapons, Vincent," Agent Miller warned, her voice steady but laced with adrenaline. "If a single round is fired, this room becomes a body bag for everyone inside. Including the child."

Vincent looked down at Sophia, who was trembling beneath Frankie’s protective frame. Then he looked back at Miller. "Your informant is Marco Santini, isn't he? He’s the one who gave you the tip about the convoy. The one who told you I was liquidating my assets."

"He provided hard evidence, Torino," Miller snapped. "Data logs, offshore account numbers, and the exact coordinates of your escape route."

"Then he lied to you, Agent," Elena Vance spoke up from the floor, her voice shaking but filled with a desperate rage. "Look at my terminal! The data transfer isn't going to a Torino account. It’s being pulled out of our legitimate logistics firm and routed to an account owned by a shell corporation called Blackwood Holdings. That's Marco's company. He’s stealing fifty million dollars right under your nose while you play his executioner."

Miller didn't drop her weapon, but her eyes flicked momentarily to the computer screen on the desk, where a progress bar was currently sitting at eighty-eight percent.

"Don't listen to her, Rachel," a smooth voice called out from the broken corridor behind the FBI team.

Marco Santini walked into the room, flanked by two men wearing local police uniforms—but Vincent knew every cop on his payroll, and these men weren't local PD. They were mercenaries wearing stolen skin.

"Marco," Agent Miller said, her tone dropping into a cautious territory. "You were supposed to remain on the perimeter."

"And miss the family reunion?" Marco smiled, his scar twisting into an ugly, crooked line. "Vincent was always a talker. He’ll spin a web until your head is spinning, Agent. Look at the facts. The trackers are under his cars. The money is moving. Secure the prisoner."

Vincent let out a low, dark chuckle that made Marco’s smile falter.

"What's so funny, Vince?" Marco sneered.

"You always were impatient, Marco," Vincent said, slowly lowering his hands despite the rifles pointed at him. "You forgot one basic rule of the Torino family. We don't keep our primary servers in the building."

He looked at Frankie and gave a slight nod.

Frankie pulled a small, silver remote from his vest and pressed the single red button. Downstairs in the basement, the massive backup generators didn't kick in—instead, the hard lines connecting the 14th floor to the external satellite arrays were instantly severed with a small, controlled explosive charge.

The progress bar on the computer screen froze at eighty-nine percent, then turned a bright, flashing red.

TRANSFER FAILED. SIGNAL LOST.

Marco’s face went from smug arrogance to pure, unadulterated fury in less than a second. "You son of a bitch," he hissed, his hand flying to the holster at his hip. "You ruined it!"