A single mother of four took a job at a mysterious Westchester mansion, unaware the east wing would be burning before they even arrived.

The fire chief from the local municipal department—having finally arrived with four roaring engines to supplement the estate’s private teams—was screaming orders through a bullhorn, directing massive deluge guns toward the exposed timbers of the mansion’s central spine to keep the inferno from devouring the grand ballroom and the west wing.

The heat in the courtyard was beginning to blister the paint on the perimeter vehicles.

Vincent turned on his heel. He didn't look like a man whose home had just been breached and burned. He looked like an emperor whose territory had just been violated, and whose retribution would be biblical.

He strode back to the black armored SUV, his shoes crunching over broken glass and wet gravel. He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and yanked it open.

"Out," Vincent commanded.

Emily didn't move. She held Caleb tighter, her knuckles white, her eyes wide with terror. "Are you insane? The house is on fire! There are people shooting! You have to let us leave—take us back to the city, take us anywhere!"

Vincent reached inside, his large hand resting firmly on the back of Emily’s headrest. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The smell of gunsmoke, burning cedar, and cold November rain rolled off his clothes.

"The road back to the parkway is compromised, Emily," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, steady, hypnotic register that brooked no defiance. "If they hit my house with thermite, they have spotters on the county roads. Out there, in a car, you are a target. Inside my walls, behind the reinforced bulkheads of the west wing, you are behind twelve inches of hardened steel."

Ethan leaned forward from the back row, his voice cracked with adolescent rage. "You lied to us! You said this was a house! You’re a gangster!"

Vincent didn't even look back at Ethan. His eyes remained locked on Emily.

"I am the only thing standing between your children and the men who just lit that fire, Mrs. Carter," Vincent said, every word hitting like a hammer. "You want to take your chances walking down that dark road in the sleet with a five-year-old who doesn't have a shoe? Or do you want to walk into my house and let me protect you?"

Emily looked at the burning mansion. She looked at the rain turning to ice against the cobblestones. She looked down at Caleb, who was shivering uncontrollably, his small sock soaked through with damp mud.

She had no money. She had no home. She had no one in this world who gave a damn whether she lived or died.

Except this monster in a three-piece suit who had promised, on his own life, that her children were not bad weather.

"Ethan," Emily whispered, her voice breaking. "Get your brothers."

"Mom, no!" Ethan argued, tears of frustration gathering in the corners of his eyes. "We can't go in there!"

"I said get your brothers, Ethan!" Emily commanded, the maternal authority in her voice leaving no room for rebellion. "Now!"

Vincent stepped back, creating a perimeter with his own body. He held his hand out toward Emily, not to touch her, but to shield her from the falling sparks as she stepped down from the high running board of the SUV, carrying Caleb in her arms.

Noah scrambled out next, his small hands clutching the hem of Emily’s coat, his head ducked against the heat. Mason followed, his backpack securely zipped, his fingers still clutching his electronic scanner. Ethan was the last to exit, his jaw clenched, his eyes glaring at Vincent with pure, venomous defiance, but he positioned himself immediately behind Noah, shielding his younger brother with his own body.

"Frank!" Vincent roared over the wail of the fire sirens. "Escort them through the conservatory entrance to the west bunker suite! Take Marco and Luke. If so much as an ash flake touches them, I will put you in the ground myself."

"On it, Boss!" Frank shouted, raising his carbine and gesturing toward the heavy, reinforced glass doors of the undamaged west wing. "This way! Move, move, move!"

Emily ran. Her boots splashed through puddles of water mixed with black soot, the heat from the burning east wing washing over her back like the breath of a dragon. Around them, heavily armed men in black tactical gear formed a moving wall, their weapons raised toward the tree line, scanning the darkness for the shadows that had brought war to the estate.

Vincent did not run.

He stood in the center of the circular drive, illuminated by the towering pillar of fire devouring his estate. His dark suit was dusted with gray ash, his wavy hair whipped by the wind. He slowly retrieved his satellite phone, dialed a single digit, and pressed it to his ear.

"It’s Moretti," Vincent said into the receiver. His voice was so cold it seemed to freeze the falling sleet around him. "Activate the council. Lock down every port from Brooklyn to Bayonne. Tell them someone just touched my house."

He paused, his eyes flicking to the conservatory doors, where Emily had just safely ushered her four sons across the threshold into the fortified safety of the west wing.