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I rise from my chair. “I think bedtime is winning this argument.”

Ivy groans dramatically.

Maggie stands. “I'll help her get ready.”

My daughter slides out of her chair and reaches for Maggie's hand before following her out of the room. Winston hurries after them while Daisy follows at a slower pace.

Roman pushes back his chair. “Office.”

One word. I follow him from the dining room.

Roman moves toward the windows while I close the office door behind us. The conversation downstairs is over. The real one starts now.

Beyond the windows, security lights illuminate the grounds while men patrol the perimeter in pairs. Every gate is covered. Every entrance is watched. Luka doubled the exterior rotation before dinner, and Roman's men reinforced the front approach as soon as they arrived.

I built this estate to keep my daughter safe. Tonight it looks far too much like the world I spent eight years trying to leave behind.

Roman turns from the window. “Walk me through the shelter attack.”

I move toward the desk where Luka left the preliminary reports. Photographs, maps, witness notes, and security summaries cover the surface in neat stacks. “I had men inside and outside. Plainclothes posted near the entrances, cameras checked before the event, routes cleared, and a response vehicle two blocks away.”

Roman’s face doesn’t change. “And they reached her.”

My hand tightens against the edge of the desk before I force it loose. “They reached the hallway. They never left with her.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.” I look up from the report. “It’s not.”

The truth lies between us, ugly and impossible to dress into anything else. My security was tight. My planning was sound. None of that matters because Irina is dead, and men got close enough to put their hands on my daughter.

Roman steps closer to the desk. “Where was the break?”

“There wasn’t a single break. That’s the problem.” I take one of the marked photographs and push it toward him. “They used the event against us. Volunteers, donors, vendors, animals moving in and out of the building, public access, noise, confusion. The shelter was never designed for a lockdown operation.”

“Maggie shouldn’t have been exposed.”

“No.” I look down at the photograph again. “She should never have been part of this.”

Roman's eyes stay on me before he reaches into his jacket and slides a folded report across the desk. “The tattoo gave us a lead.”

I pick up the report and scan the first page.

“Not a street criminal or one of Enzo's usual men,” he continues.

I scan the rest. A grainy image of the tattoo appears, a black crown above crossed daggers. I've seen enough marks, crests, and symbols in my life to know it belongs to an organization, not a man.

I look up. “What did you find?”

“A mercenary network. No official names. They use different cells and passports. Former military. Private security. Intelligence castoffs. Men who understand surveillance, extraction, and how to disappear.”

A knot forms between my shoulders. “For hire.”

“For the right price.”

“Enzo can afford that.”

“He can,” Roman agrees. “But the method doesn’t match him.”