THE MAFIA KING SAID NO WOMAN COULD GUARD HIS SON—SO I TOOK ONE NIGHT TO PROVE HIM WRONG, BUT THE THREAT WAS ALREADY SITTING AT HIS TABLE

The cold morning air of the estate grounds hit us like a physical blow as we climbed out of the sub-basement hatch and stepped onto the gravel courtyard.

Sirens wailed in the distance, their red and blue lights painting the manicured lawns and towering oak trees in flashing hues. Armored federal vehicles blocked the main wrought-iron gates, and men in tactical gear moved with practiced efficiency, escorting weeping accountants and trembling domestic staff away from the mansion.

Director Paul Whitaker was already in handcuffs.

He didn't look like an untouchable mastermind anymore. As federal marshals shoved him into the back of an unmarked transport van, his immaculate suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his expression twisted into a mask of bitter, impotent fury. He caught my eye as I walked past, his lips moving to form a silent curse, but I didn't slow my pace. I simply nodded once—a professional acknowledgment of a game well played—and kept walking.

Grant Blackwood stood on the front steps of the mansion, flanked by two federal agents who were officially serving him with a mountain of indictments, asset-freeze notices, and grand jury summons. Despite the gravity of the legal storm crashing down around him, the old crime boss stood tall, his silver hair catching the pale morning sun.

As Ethan and I approached the steps, Grant raised a hand to halt the federal agents. His sharp, calculating eyes locked onto me for a long, silent moment.

"You broke protocol, Agent Miller," Grant said, his voice deep and raspy, carrying the weight of a man whose world had just been forcibly dismantled. "You brought federal intervention onto private property without my authorization."

"Your authorization was compromised the moment your head of security decided to sell you out," I replied, standing my ground at the base of the stone steps, my posture rigid and professional. "If you had trusted your internal security to someone competent from the start, we wouldn't be standing in the middle of a federal raid."

A slow, humorless smile touched the corners of Grant’s mouth. It was the first time I had seen him look like something other than a monument to fear.

"My son tells me you saved his life twice last night," Grant said, shifting his gaze slightly toward Ethan, who was standing quietly beside me. "And you dismantled a coup that took six months to plan in less than twelve hours."

"I did my job," I said.

"More than your job," Grant conceded. He reached into his coat pocket—slowly, under the watchful eyes of the federal marshals—and pulled out a heavy, cream-colored envelope sealed with a black wax stamp. He held it out toward me. "Director Whitaker is out of a job permanently. The agency is currently undergoing a complete federal restructuring under direct judicial oversight. Your personnel file has been pulled from the rejection pile and placed at the top of the active command roster."

I looked at the envelope, then back up at the crime boss. "I don't take rewards from targets of federal investigation, Mr. Blackwood."

"It's not a reward, Agent Miller," Grant said, his voice dropping into a register of grim respect. "It's a contract. My son still needs protection while I sort out this legal mess. And frankly, nobody else in this city is qualified to watch his back."

Before I could answer, Ethan stepped forward, gently taking the envelope from his father’s hand.

"She doesn't need your contracts, Father," Ethan said, his voice calm, steady, and entirely free of the guarded hesitation he had shown when we first met in the hallway. He looked at me, his eyes softening in a way that made the morning chill feel a little less biting. "She’s taking a leave of absence from the agency. Effective immediately."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that so? And who authorized my leave?"

"I did," Ethan smiled, stepping closer so that the federal agents and the flashing sirens faded into background noise. "I offered her a better job. Full-time, private detail, with significantly better hours and a boss who actually listens when she tells him there's a killer in the hallway."

I crossed my arms over my chest, letting out a short, skeptical breath. "And what makes you think I'd accept a permanent assignment with a Blackwood?"

"Because," Ethan said softly, his gaze never leaving mine, "you're the only person in this city who isn't afraid of my name. And because..." He paused, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. "...you never walk away from a challenge."

I looked down at the envelope in his hand, then back up at the sprawling estate that had almost become our collective tomb just a few hours ago. The smoke from the burnt-out server room in the east wing was still drifting faintly into the clear morning sky, signaling the definitive end of an old, bloody era.

"One condition," I said, unpinning my old agency badge and dropping it into the empty planter by the steps where I had crashed during my interview just days ago.

Ethan tilted his head, amused. "Name it."

"You carry your own bags," I said, turning on my heel toward the waiting car.