My husband’s family never knew I had once been an MMA champion. At my mother-in-law’s BBQ, my brother-in-law poured beer over my head. My husband stood up and told him to apologize to me. He laughed, shoved my husband, then punched him in the mouth. He told me to sit down because it didn’t concern me. Then he grabbed my wrist... and that’s when my sister-in-law started screaming.

I didn't wait for Julian to draw.

I vaulted over the coffee table, my right boot kicking his teacup squarely into his face. Boiling chamomile tea and ceramic shards shattered across his eyes. Julian roared in pain, staggering back, his hand ripping the snub-nosed revolver from his holster.

I trapped his gun-wrist with an overhook, pivoted on the ball of my left foot, and drove a savage knee directly into his floating ribs. He wheezed, his grip faltering. I followed through with a spinning back-elbow that smashed into his temple, spinning him full circle before driving his face down into Diane's imported rug.

The revolver slid across the floor, stopping neatly against the toe of Ryan’s boot.

Ryan stepped on the barrel, kicked it away into the hallway, and looked down at Julian, who was groaning in the fetal position, completely neutralized.

The living room fell dead silent, save for the sound of Derek weeping against the glass door and the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows.

Diane sat frozen, staring at me not with superiority, not with judgment, but with sheer, unadulterated awe. She had spent three years treating me like a timid, plain girl who wasn't worthy of her pedigree—only to watch me dismantle the terrifying men who held her life in their hands without breaking a sweat.

"Elena..." Diane whispered, her voice trembling. "I... I didn't know."

"Now you do," I said quietly, rolling down my sleeves and adjusting my cuffs. "Ryan, call the FBI tip line we set up in Portland. Give them Julian, Marco, and the transaction ledgers from that phone. Derek’s money laundering will trigger a federal seizure, but it will keep Victor's hitmen off this house permanently."

Ryan nodded, pulling his phone out. "Consider it done."

Chloe stood up, wiped her eyes, and walked straight past her weeping husband without a single glance. She looked at me, nodded once with deep, unspoken respect, and headed upstairs to pack her children’s bags.

For a brief, shining moment, the air cleared. The storm seemed to be breaking. Ryan reached out, his fingers intertwining with mine, a weary but victorious smile touching his lips. We had defended our home. We had exposed the parasite. We had won.

Then, the sudden glare of twin halogen high-beams cut through the living room curtains.

A heavy diesel engine rumbled to a stop directly outside the front porch. Then another. And another.

Three armored black Suburbans parked across the manicured front lawn, their headlights bathing the living room in blinding, white light.

The front passenger door of the lead vehicle clicked open. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out into the pouring rain, carrying a gold-tipped cane and flanked by six heavily armed men in black combat gear.

Victor Reno had not stayed in Seattle.

He stood on Diane's pristine driveway, looking up at the front door, tapping the cane against the pavement with a rhythmic, chilling cadence.

*Tap. Tap. Tap.*

Ryan looked at the window, then looked down at his gun, his breath catching in his throat. "Elena... who is that?"