The journey continues in the next chapter. Keep reading to see what happens.

The Volkov estate sat like a dark, brooding fortress against the roaring white waters of the St. Lawrence River. High stone walls topped with wrought-iron spikes and motion-activated thermal cameras surrounded the three-acre property, casting an invisible net over the manicured lawns and towering pine trees.

Luca parked the SUV two miles away in a wooded logging trail, leaving local operatives to monitor the perimeter communications relay.

Dressed in head-to-toe black tactical gear, Luca and Marco moved through the damp forest underbrush like wraiths, soundless and invisible in the moonless night.

They reached the northern stone wall where the security grid had a blind spot—a calculated vulnerability Luca had identified from satellite thermal imaging three hours earlier.

Marco planted a pneumatic magnetic anchor at the top of the wall, secured a lightweight carbon-fiber climbing rope, and ascended in seconds, disappearing over the stone barrier. A moment later, his coded tap signaled over their encrypted comm-links.

Clear.

Luca scaled the rope with practiced ease, his bad shoulder screaming in protest, but the cardiac defibrillator beneath his chest hummed steadily, keeping his rhythm locked and stable. He dropped silently onto the damp grass inside the perimeter.

They moved toward the rear of the grand stone manor house, bypassing two patrolling guards who were distracted by a simulated electronic glitch Marco’s tech team had triggered at the front gate.

The sub-level wine cellar door—exactly where the blueprints predicted—was secured with an electronic magnetic lock.

Marco pulled a compact black decryption box from his tactical vest, patched the decoding leads directly into the external keypad wiring harness, and watched the digital readout spin.

Three seconds.

Two.

One.

With a soft, pneumatic hiss, the heavy steel-reinforced cellar door swung inward, revealing rows of vintage French wine racks stretching into the warm, dimly lit subterranean corridors.

“In,” Luca whispered, stepping inside.

They navigated the labyrinthine stone cellar quietly, their boots making no sound against the damp brick flooring, until they reached the service elevator shaft leading directly up to the main residential study on the third floor.

The elevator was locked out from the upper levels, but the manual maintenance hatch inside the shaft offered a vertical climb straight to the top.

Ten minutes later, Luca stood outside the heavy mahogany double doors of Dmitri Volkov’s private office.

Through the polished brass keyhole, a warm amber light flickered across the Persian carpet.

Luca raised his right hand, curled his fist, and slammed it directly against the center of the heavy mahogany doors with enough force to splinter the deadbolt housing.