The bullets from outside were only a distraction... because the real assassin was already walking through the library doors.

Mia had fifteen seconds to make a decision.

Maybe less.

The recording blasted through the chapel speakers. Every word was poison. Lorenzo’s voice rolled through the estate like a death sentence. Somewhere outside, guards would be hearing it. Staff would be hearing it. If Carlo had connected the system to the external network, reporters and rivals might be hearing it too.

Matteo stood frozen.

Lorenzo looked broken.

That was the most dangerous part.

Powerful men could survive bullets, betrayal, and blood. But shame could make them stop moving.

Mia grabbed Matteo’s face between both hands.

His eyes snapped to hers.

“Listen to me,” she said. “Your father’s past is not the emergency right now. Carlo is.”

Matteo swallowed. “If that gets out—”

“Then you deal with it alive. You do not stand here and let a traitor decide your ending.”

The words hit him.

His shoulders squared.

“Mia,” Bianca called from the altar, holding the recovered drive, “the broadcast is routed through the old panic circuit. We can’t shut it down from here.”

Mia turned to Lorenzo. “Where is the master relay?”

He did not answer.

“Mr. Duca.”

Still nothing.

Matteo knelt in front of him. “Papa.”

Lorenzo blinked.

Matteo’s voice softened. “Where is it?”

Lorenzo looked at his son, and in that moment Mia saw the truth: Lorenzo Duca was not afraid of prison. He was not afraid of losing money or power. He was afraid of Matteo hearing the man he had been.

“The wine cellar,” Lorenzo said hoarsely. “Behind the north wall.”

Mia nodded. “Then we go.”

Bianca helped Lorenzo stand. “You can barely walk.”

“I can walk.”

“You are all terrible patients,” Mia muttered.

They moved through the chapel’s side door into the garden. Wind tore across the bluff. The ocean below was black and loud. In the distance, the city lights of Port Emery glittered like it had no idea a private war was unfolding above it.

Halfway across the rose garden, Mia stopped.

Too quiet.

No insects. No guards. No footsteps behind them.

Then she saw the red dot on Matteo’s chest.

Sniper.

Mia slammed into him.

The shot hit the stone fountain behind them, spraying shards into the air. Matteo and Mia crashed into the mud. Lorenzo shouted. Bianca fired toward the roofline.

Mia rolled Matteo beneath the fountain ledge.

“You keep throwing me to the ground,” he said breathlessly.

“You keep being shot at.”

“It’s becoming our thing.”

“Do not make this romantic.”

His eyes, even in the dark, warmed. “Too late.”

Another bullet struck the fountain.

Mia’s heart kicked hard once.

Not from fear.

From anger.

She was tired of men deciding where she did and did not belong. Tired of being underestimated until blood proved her useful. Tired of Matteo Duca being treated like a crown instead of a person.

She looked at the roofline.

Then she looked at the rose trellis.

“Matteo,” she said, “can you run when I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. When I say go, take your father and Bianca to the cellar.”