The shift in the room was instantaneous, a sudden, breath-stealing release of tension that left the air heavy with the metallic tang of fresh blood and burnt wood.

The storm outside reached a deafening crescendo as the first tactical breaching charge detonated at the main estate gates—BOOM.

Bright orange fireballs lit up the dark coastal sky. High-caliber automatic rifle fire erupted across the front lawn, punctuated by the heavy, rhythmic thrum of the Marquetti automated defensive turrets returning fire from the roof line.

Inside the mansion’s central command suite, Alice worked with terrifying efficiency.

She had converted the grand dining room into an emergency field surgical unit. Sterile drapes covered the long mahogany table, two high-intensity LED surgical lamps illuminated the space, and rows of IV bags, plasma units, and vascular clamps were laid out in precise order.

Outside the double doors, the battle raged.

Stefano moved through the hallways like an unstoppable force of nature. Dressed in a black tactical vest, holding a heavy assault rifle, he directed his men with cold, mathematical precision. Beside him, Nero was a terror incarnate—moving through the dark corridors, flank-guarding his master, taking down any mercenary who managed to breach the secondary windows.

"Two men down at the east entry!" Danny’s voice crackled through Stefano’s tactical headset. "Frankie took a round to the leg, and Marco has shrapnel in his chest!"

"Drag them to the dining room!" Stefano ordered over the radio, firing a three-round burst through a shattered window, dropping an advancing mercenary on the patio steps. "Alice is waiting!"

Three minutes later, the double doors of the dining room swung open.

Danny and another guard dragged two wounded men inside, setting them down on the reinforced surgical tables. Blood was pouring onto the polished hardwood floor.

Alice didn't blink. She snapped on fresh gloves, grabbing a pair of heavy trauma shears to rip open Frankie’s pants leg.

"Femoral artery is intact," Alice declared instantly, applying a tourniquet three inches above the wound and twisting the windlass until the bleeding stopped. "Marco has a tension pneumothorax—hand me the chest tube kit!"

For thirty minutes, while bullets slammed into the exterior stone walls and the sound of shattering glass echoed through the estate, Alice operated with the ice-cold focus of a veteran military surgeon. She sealed chest wounds, stopped arterial bleeds, and stabilized four critically injured guards, turning what should have been a slaughter into a miracle of survival.

Suddenly, the lights in the dining room flickered and died.

The emergency red generators kicked in three seconds later, casting long, crimson shadows across the room.

The heavy double doors were kicked open with a sickening CRACK.

Julian Moretti stepped into the room.

He was a tall, skeletal man in his late fifties, his face scarred, his eyes wild with unhinged, desperate hatred. He held a nickel-plated revolver in his right hand, his suit covered in rain and gunpowder soot. Behind him lay three dead guards.

"Well, well," Moretti sneered, looking around the improvised surgical suite, his eyes landing on Alice, who stood beside the operating table, her hands covered in blood, her posture stiff and unyielding. "Stefano’s new little nurse."

"Get out of my operating room," Alice said, her voice dropping into an icy, dead tone that surprised even Moretti.

Moretti laughed—a harsh, rasping sound. "You’ve got fire, girl. But your mob boss is dead outside on the lawn. My men have surrounded the estate. Now step away from those men, or I put a bullet through your pretty face."

"She won't be stepping anywhere, Julian," a voice rumbled from the shadows behind him.

Moretti spun around, raising his revolver.

Stefano Marquetti stood in the doorway, his black vest torn, blood dripping from a shallow graze on his cheekbone. He didn't raise his rifle. He didn't need to.

Nero launched from the dark corner behind the dining room curtains like a shadow taking physical form.

The hundred-and-fifty-pound mastiff slammed directly into Moretti’s chest, crashing his body onto the hardwood floor with a bone-shattering thud. Moretti screamed as the nickel-plated revolver flew from his hand, skidding across the floor straight to Alice’s feet.

Nero pinned Moretti’s shoulders to the ground, his massive jaws locked two inches from the man’s throat, a low, murderous rumble shaking the dog’s chest.

Stefano walked slowly into the room, stepping over the fallen revolver. He stopped beside Alice, reaching out and gently taking her blood-stained hand into his own.

"You missed a spot on your face, Julian," Stefano said softly, looking down at the terrified mercenary boss pinned under his dog.

"Stefano... please..." Moretti choked out, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated horror as Nero’s teeth brushed his neck. "Call him off! I’ll leave the country! I’ll surrender all the New York docks!"

Stefano looked at Alice. "What do you think, my love? Does he get a discharge paper?"

Alice picked up the nickel-plated revolver from the floor, holding it with practiced ease, her green eyes fixed on Moretti with cold, absolute finality.

"This patient is terminal, Stefano," Alice said softly. "Time of death... right now."

Stefano smiled. He tapped Nero’s collar twice.