The sterile billionaire they called Boston’s Don laughed at the baby in his trash until a barefoot girl exposed the son and sister his mansion had buried

The security klaxon was tied directly to the perimeter sensors along Beacon Street.

Edward spun around, leaving the ghost-filled nursery behind, and broke into a dead sprint down the long corridor toward the main foyer, Mrs. Martinez hurrying in his wake.

By the time he reached the security monitoring station near the back entrance, Calvin Brooks, the head of the estate’s private detail, was slamming his palms onto the control console, switching camera feeds from the front gates to the side perimeter wall.

“Talk to me, Calvin,” Edward ordered, his voice cold and flat, strip-mining every trace of panic from his tone.

“We’ve been breached, Mr. Drummond,” Calvin barked, his eyes darting across three dozen split-screen monitors. “Three unmarked black SUVs rammed the secondary service gate off Charles River Esplanade. They bypassed our local police frequency jammers using military-grade encryption. They’re moving fast—specialized tactical unit, not local thugs.”

On screen two, figures clad in dark tactical gear dropped silently over the stone wall, their weapons suppressed, moving with terrifying synchronization toward the service entrance beneath the kitchens.

Edward’s mind raced. How did they find him so fast? The courier had only just left. The genetic sample was still in transit. Unless...

“Arthur Cole,” Edward muttered, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.

The real estate tycoon whose daughter Vanessa had been publicly dumped by Edward two weeks ago had more than enough money to hire corporate mercenaries, but this went beyond mere revenge. If Arthur Cole knew about the hidden wing—if he knew that the Drummond bloodline had branched out and that an heir had just surfaced—this wasn't just a corporate raid.

This was an assassination of lineage.

“Get Sophia and the baby into the panic room behind the wine cellar,” Edward commanded, his hand reaching into his walnut desk drawer to pull out a heavy, matte-black Walther PPK.

“Mr. Drummond, you can’t stay out here in the open,” Calvin protested, unholstering his own firearm. “They’re heading straight for the main library and the family quarters!”

“Let them come,” Edward said, his eyes narrowing into cold, lethal slits. “This is my house. And nobody touches my blood.”

In the kitchen, the heavy oak door burst open before Mrs. Martinez could lock it from the inside.

Two tactical operatives surged through the threshold, their rifles raised.

Sophia Miller, holding a wooden soup ladle like a club, stood in front of the bassinet where the baby was beginning to stir and cry.

“Step away from the child,” the lead operative hissed, his voice mechanical and distorted behind a black balaclava.

Sophia didn't flinch. Her chin lifted with that terrifying, stubborn Drummond defiance. “Get out of our house!” she yelled, hurling the heavy ceramic mug of hot chocolate straight at the operative's visor.

The mug shattered against his helmet, buying a split second of confusion—just long enough for Edward to step around the doorway behind them, raise his pistol with absolute, unhesitating precision, and fire two warning shots into the oak ceiling beams high above their heads.

Plaster rained down in a white cloud.

“Drop your weapons,” Edward’s voice echoed through the kitchen, cold enough to freeze water. “Or the next two rounds won't hit the ceiling.”

The two intruders froze, their weapon barrels slowly lowering as Calvin and three armed estate guards swarmed into the room from the scullery, subpenned zip-ties clicking into place before the mercenaries could even draw a breath.