Part 2: "There’s something wrong with your suitcase," a little girl warned the feared mafia boss, right before her dog alerted to a hidden compartment that changed everything.

The iron gates at the perimeter did not swing open this time—they were blown inward by a heavy steel battering ram mounted on a black tactical vehicle.

Two armored vans roared up the winding, tree-lined driveway of the Lake Forest estate, their high-intensity searchlights carving through the falling snow. Eight men in unmarked black tactical gear, helmets, and suppressed carbines leaped out into the freezing wind, moving in synchronized fire teams toward the broad stone portico.

From the dark upper terrace of the manor, Vincent stood silent as a statue, an antique overcoat draped over his broad shoulders, holding a matte-black military rifle.

Beside him, behind the stone balustrade, knelt four of his veteran street captains, their faces hard and unreadable.

"Let them reach the fountain," Vincent whispered into his throat mic. "Not before."

The tactical team advanced across the open snowy lawn, their boots crunching on the gravel. Their leader raised a hand, signaling his point man to deploy a breach charge against the double oak doors.

"Now," Vincent said.

A wall of synchronized gunfire erupted from the second-story terrace.

The sound was thunderous, echoing across the frozen bluffs of Lake Michigan. The heavy 7.62 rounds shattered the searchlights on the front van instantly, plunging the courtyard into flashing chaos. Two of Vance's point men dropped to the gravel before they could raise their weapons.

"Ambush! Fall back to the vehicles!" the tactical leader screamed, diving behind the hood of the second van as sparks flew from the armored plate.

Vincent did not fire wildly. He fired in measured, brutal pairs. Each squeeze of his trigger struck with cold, deliberate precision. A mercenary trying to flank the veranda was knocked off his feet into the snowdrifts; another caught a round through his shoulder as he reached for a smoke grenade.

Suddenly, a loud screech of tires tore through the driveway behind the mercenaries.

Three heavy municipal garbage trucks—the ones Vincent had ordered from his industrial logistics fleet—slammed into the driveway entrance, blocking any possible retreat. Twenty armed men from the Chicago docks poured out from behind the steel haulers, cutting off the driveway completely.

The remaining four mercenaries realized in an instant that they were hopelessly outmatched. They dropped their carbines into the snow and threw their hands into the air, kneeling beside the shattered fountain.

Vincent lowered his rifle. The air smelled of cordite, burnt oil, and fresh winter pine.

He walked down the grand stone staircase to the front courtyard. The snow crunched beneath his polished leather boots. Frank was already there, kicking the dropped weapons away from the surrendering men.

Vincent stood over the mercenary leader, who was bleeding from a shrapnel wound on his cheek.

"Who sent the command?" Vincent asked calmly.

The leader glared through his tactical goggles, spitting blood onto the white snow. "Vance is already at the river terminal, Moretti. He’s liquidating the server banks right now. By sunrise, everything David Hayes stole will be burned to ash, and Vance will be on a private jet to Zurich. You’re too late."

Vincent reached down, pulled the man's radio from his chest rig, and keyed the transmit button.

"Julian," Vincent said into the mic.

Static hissed over the frequency. Then, a smooth, patrician voice answered with mocking amusement: "Vincent. How lovely of you to call. I assume my security contractors failed to retrieve the Hayes girl?"

"They are on their knees in my driveway, Julian," Vincent said, his voice as steady as granite. "And I have the locket. I have the deadman's cipher. And I have the crash telemetry from October twelfth."

The silence on the other end lasted five full seconds. The arrogance evaporated from Vance’s voice, replaced by a sudden, jagged tension.

"You won't survive the night, Vincent," Vance hissed. "I have the entire Calumet precinct surrounding this terminal. You can't touch me here."

"I don't need to touch you, Julian," Vincent said softly. "I’m going to bury you where you stand."