THE BILLIONAIRE’S HIDDEN HEIR: 10 SECONDS TO LOCKDOWN

Sirens.

A cacophony of wailing sirens echoed from the streets above, cutting through the heavy downpour that battered Manhattan. Red and blue emergency lights flashed through the high windows of the estate, painting the bloody marble walls in strobing hues of emergency and authority.

Federal marshals, state troopers, and tactical response teams swarmed the perimeter of 84th Street. But they were not there to arrest Victor Moretti.

They were there because every federal terminal in the Southern District of New York had just lit up with irrefutable, cryptographic proof of the Sterling syndicate's decades-long treason, money laundering, and political assassinations. The Vance ledger had cracked the city wide open.

Down in the sub-basement vault, Isabella refused to let Victor go.

She had packed the wound with emergency gauze from the vault’s tactical medical kit, her hands performing chest compressions with frantic, relentless precision. Sweat and tears dripped from her chin onto his blood-stained shirt.

"One, two, three, four..." she counted aloud, her voice hoarse, her muscles screaming in agony. "Don't you dare die on me, Victor Moretti! Don't you dare leave me alone in this city!"

*Cough.*

A sudden, violent gasp tore from Victor’s lungs. His chest heaved beneath her hands, and his eyelids fluttered open, dark and dazed with agony.

"You're... very bossy... for a maid," he wheezed, his voice weaker than a whisper.

Isabella collapsed forward, resting her forehead against his uninjured shoulder, a broken sob escaping her lips. "Shut up. Just shut up and breathe."

Heavy tactical boots thudded against the stone corridor outside the vault.

"CLEAR! ADVANCING ON THE VAULT!" a loud, authoritative voice shouted.

Isabella instantly grabbed the fallen Glock from the floor, positioning herself over Victor’s body, her weapon leveled at the doorway.

Four heavily armed federal marshals in olive-drab tactical armor breached the doorway, their rifle lights illuminating the vault. But when the lead agent saw Isabella—a young woman in a shredded, blood-soaked domestic uniform standing protectively over the dying billionaire—he lowered his weapon immediately.

"Federal agents!" the lead marshal shouted, holding up a badge. "Hold your fire! We have paramedics standing by!"

Two flight medics in blue jumpsuits rushed into the room with trauma kits and a portable stretcher.

"He's got a penetrating abdominal wound, left quadrant, heavy arterial bleed!" Isabella barked at them, her aristocratic authority snapping back into place instantly. "Start two wide-bore IVs and get whole blood hanging immediately! He's in hypovolemic shock!"

The lead medic blinked in surprise at the maid giving advanced trauma orders, but didn't question her. "Understood! Let's move! On three—one, two, three!"

They lifted Victor onto the stretcher. As they began wheeling him toward the elevator, Victor reached out with his right hand, his fingers desperately searching the air.

Isabella caught his hand, interlacing her bloody fingers with his.

"I'm right here," she said, walking alongside the stretcher as they pushed through the crowded cellar. "I'm not leaving."

They emerged into the grand ballroom.

Dawn had begun to break over Manhattan. Pale, golden light filtered through the shattered stained-glass windows, illuminating the wreckage of the night. Dozens of federal agents were cataloging evidence; paramedics were treating Gabriel, who was sitting up on a stretcher, giving a thumbs-up to Victor as they wheeled him past.

Derek Sterling was being dragged out in steel handcuffs by four FBI agents, his face swollen and covered in bandages, sobbing like a terrified child as news cameras flashed from the street outside.

At the base of the grand staircase, Isabella reached into her pocket.

She withdrew the silver falcon medallion. The quantum drive had been retrieved, but the ancient silver pendant remained intact. She looked at the ouroboros, at the three emerald stars, and then down at Victor, who was watching her through the oxygen mask strapped to his face.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his forehead.