A four-year-old child stood barefoot in the cold to tell a feared crime lord that her mother was locked beneath his mansion.

Nathan stepped back half a pace, his hands coming up in a placating, peaceful gesture, though his jaw was now tight with suppressed tension.

"Dom, listen to me," Nathan urged, his voice dropping its polished charm and taking on an urgent, concerned tone. "You're taking the word of a traumatized four-year-old child over established estate protocols. Claire has the key in her office upstairs. If you really want to inspect the wine cellar, let me go get the key. Breaking down secured doors in front of the kid is going to scare her—"

"Marcus," Dominic interrupted, his voice cutting off Nathan entirely without even looking at him. "I said break it."

Marcus didn't hesitate. He reached into his heavy tactical belt and pulled out a pair of heavy-duty, commercial-grade bolt cutters that had been stored in the service entryway for utility maintenance. The forged steel jaws of the cutters glinted dully under the dim yellow light of the vault corridor.

Marcus stepped up to the old olive-green steel door. He opened the handles of the bolt cutters wide, positioning the heavy steel jaws directly around the thick, hardened steel shackle of the brand-new brass padlock.

Harper squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face against Dominic's leg, holding her hands tightly over her ears. Dominic placed his hand on the back of her head, keeping her safe against his side while keeping his eyes locked onto Nathan. Nathan stood perfectly still, his calm demeanor rapidly cracking to reveal the frantic, calculating eyes of a cornered man.

Marcus braced his boots against the damp flagstones and brought the long handles of the bolt cutters together with immense physical force.

CLANG!

A sharp, violent metallic snap rang through the narrow stone corridor, echoing off the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Sparks flew as the hardened steel jaws bit deep into the brass shackle, but the high-security lock held fast, its reinforced core resisting the initial bite.

Marcus grunted, adjusting his grip on the heavy steel handles. He spread the arms of the cutter wider, shifting the jaw angle to leverage maximum force against the lock's pressure point. He locked his elbows, threw his entire body weight forward, and squeezed down with all his strength.

CRACK-SNAP!

The heavy brass padlock sheared in two. The severed top half of the shackle tumbled to the flagstones with a bright metallic clatter, followed by the heavy body of the lock hitting the damp stone floor.

The steel door was now unlatched.

Dominic didn't wait for Marcus to clear the way. He stepped forward, reached out with his bare hand, and grabbed the rusted iron handle of the steel cellar door.

The heavy door groaned on its ancient, ungreased hinges—a long, agonizing screech of protesting metal that sounded like a dying beast. As the door swung outward, a wave of cold, stale, stagnant air billowed out from the darkness within.

Unlike the corridor outside, which was lit by Edison bulbs, the interior of the wine cellar was pitch black. The thick smell of damp earth, sour wine, and mold was instantly overpowered by a sharp, horrifying odor that made Daniel instantly raise his guard: the metallic stench of dried blood, sweat, and absolute human misery.

"Daniel, light," Dominic ordered sharply.

Daniel pulled a high-lumen tactical flashlight from his suit jacket and snapped it on. A brilliant, harsh beam of white LED light pierced the thick darkness of the cellar.

The beam swept across the interior. The room was large, vaulted with ancient red brick, lined from floor to ceiling with wooden wine racks filled with hundreds of dusty bottles.

Then, the beam hit the back wall.

Dominic’s breath hitched in his throat.

Bound tightly to a heavy upright wooden wine rack near the rear of the vault was Mia Carter.

She was in a horrifying state. Her dark brown hair, usually kept in a neat, professional bun, was matted with sweat and dried blood, falling in wild tangles across her face. She was wearing her work attire—a burgundy blouse and dark trousers—but the fabric was torn at the shoulders and stained with grime. Her wrist was bound securely to the heavy oak rack with thick, industrial plastic zip-ties that had cut deep into her skin, leaving her hands pale and swollen.

Her face was severely bruised—a dark purple contusion swelled over her right cheekbone, and her lips were cracked and caked with dried blood from severe dehydration. She hung limply in her restraints, her body trembling weakly in the freezing cold of the subterranean room.

At the sudden intrusion of the blinding white light, Mia let out a low, agonizing groan. She squinted through swollen eyes, trying to block the glare with her chin.