Part 2: A WOMAN IN SILVER LUNGED TOWARD A PREGNANT HEIR BESIDE A CHAMPAGNE TOWER.

The red emergency LEDs snapped on with an ominous click, washing the penthouse in a dull, bloody glow. The low hum of the primary generators died instantly, replaced by absolute, predatory silence.

Inside the medical room, Elena let out a muffled scream.

"Backup power should have engaged in three seconds," Maya called out, her voice tense as she manually switched the ultrasound unit to its internal battery. "Rocco! The main lines were severed, not tripped!"

Rocco didn't hesitate. He drew his custom suppressed sidearm from his shoulder holster, checking the chamber with a muscle-memory slide of his thumb. "Lock the partition from the inside, Maya. Do not open it for anyone. Not even me, unless you hear three taps on the steel panel followed by my code."

"Rocco, don't leave me," Elena pleaded through the intercom, tears finally spilling over her cheeks as she tried to raise herself onto her elbows. "Please... they’re here for him. I know they are."

Rocco walked to the glass, placing his broad palm flat against the barrier right where her trembling fingers rested on the other side. "They won't touch him, Elena. I made a promise to you the day your husband died. Nobody crosses me to get to your child."

Elena’s gaze locked onto his. Her late husband—the Patriarch’s eldest son—had died in a mysterious helicopter crash eleven months earlier. Rocco had been the only one who pulled bodies from the burning wreckage. He hadn't been able to save the brother, but he had sworn his life to the widow.

He turned back to the Patriarch, who remained stationary in the red emergency light, his hands resting on his cane.

"The server room in the sub-basement controls the perimeter seals," Rocco said. "Someone with master-level biometric access cut the lines at the breaker."

"Only three people have that clearance," the Patriarch said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "Me. Elena."

"And Victoria," Rocco finished.

The Patriarch's third wife. Elena’s stepmother. A woman twenty-five years younger than her husband, former crown princess of a fallen eastern European dynasty, who had spent the last five years playing the dutiful, silent hostess at charity galas.

"Victoria is in Paris," the Patriarch insisted, though for the first time, a shadow of uncertainty crossed his aristocratic features. "She boarded the private Gulfstream at six o’clock."

"Her luggage boarded the plane," Rocco said, checking the tactical feeds on his wrist unit. The screens were snow, jammed by high-frequency military transmitters. "The Gulfstream took off with an empty cabin. She never left the estate."