THE MAFIA BOSS BURIED HIS WIFE TWO MONTHS AGO

While the hospital was wrapped in clinical security, a far more sinister operation was unfolding across the northern suburbs of Westchester.

At two o’clock in the morning, a black unmarked van pulled up to the service gate of the DeLuca estate on Blackwood Ridge.

Marco and three heavily armed mercenaries stepped out of the vehicle, wearing black tactical gear and carrying suppressed automatic carbines. They bypassed the electronic perimeter sensors using a security override code that Vincent had possessed for five years.

Their target was the staff cottage situated three hundred yards behind the main manor house—the residence of Sophia Walker and her three-year-old daughter, Emma.

Marco crept along the manicured boxwood hedges, his weapon raised, motioning for his men to breach the rear kitchen door of the cottage.

"Remember Vincent’s orders," Marco whispered through his tactical radio. "No gunshots if you can avoid it. Disconnect the propane line behind the utility shed, stage a primary gas leak, and light it from the tree line. The whole structure needs to go up in one blast."

The lead mercenary reached the rear wooden door, pulling a lockpick set from his vest.

Before the pick could touch the brass cylinder, the exterior floodlights of the entire estate ignited with blinding, daylight-level intensity.

A concussive siren tore through the midnight air.

From the dark perimeter of the pine forest surrounding the cottage, fifteen private security operators in full tactical armor stepped into the light, their laser sights painting thirty red dots across the chests of Marco and his team.

Standing on the porch of the staff cottage, dressed in a heavy black coat with his arms crossed, was Mason Reed.

"Drop your weapons!" Mason’s voice boomed through an external megaphone. "You are completely surrounded! Lay flat on the ground with your hands behind your heads!"

Marco panicked. He raised his carbine toward the porch, firing three wild rounds into the cedar siding.

The response was instantaneous and overwhelming.

Mason’s team fired four non-lethal flashbang grenades, followed by targeted suppression fire that took out the mercenaries' legs and shoulders within three seconds. Marco was slammed face-down onto the wet grass, his weapon kicked twenty feet away, his arms twisted behind his back as heavy steel zip-ties were secured around his wrists.

The front door of the cottage opened softly.

Sophia stood on the threshold, holding three-year-old Emma tightly against her chest. Emma was wrapped in her yellow cardigan, clutching her stuffed gray rabbit, her wide brown eyes looking out at the flashing lights with complete, unburdened innocence.

Mason walked up the porch steps, holstering his weapon, and knelt down in front of the little girl.

"Is the bad lady's dog safe, Mister Mason?" Emma asked in a tiny, sleepy whisper.