The peaceful days were shattered at two o'clock on Sunday morning.

The shrill, piercing shriek of our home perimeter alarm jolted me awake from a dead sleep.

I sprang from bed, throwing on a robe and grabbing the security monitor beside my nightstand.

The camera feeds on the eastern terrace were flickering with red warning borders.

A heavy metal ladder was propped against the balcony outside Elena’s locked study.

Two figures dressed in dark hooded sweatshirts and masks were actively prying open the shattered French door with iron crowbars.

They weren't Marcus or Vanessa—both were locked in county holding cells.

These were hired muscle, sent to destroy whatever physical evidence remained inside the house before the state grand jury convened on Tuesday.

I sprinted down the hallway into Lily’s bedroom, locking her heavy door from the inside and securing Clara in the attached master suite.

“Stay inside and don't make a sound,” I whispered to Clara, who held a sleeping Lily tight against her chest. “The police are already en route.”

I grabbed the heavy brass fire poker from the upstairs hearth and moved quietly down the back service staircase.

Glass shattered from the study below.

The intruders were inside.

I reached the arched entrance to the study just as one of the men was dousing Elena’s mahogany desk and filing cabinets with clear, pungent accelerant.

The smell of gasoline hit my nostrils, sharp and suffocating.

“Hold it!” I roared, stepping into the room with the fire poker raised.

The man holding the gasoline canister turned in shock, fumbling for a lighter in his pocket.

The second man lunged at me with an iron pry bar.

I sidestepped the swing, driving the heavy brass poker into his ribs with all the force of a father protecting his child.

The man groaned, dropping to his knees on the glass-strewn floor.

The first intruder struck his lighter, a yellow flame dancing between his fingers as he prepared to drop it onto the soaked rugs.

Before he could release it, the front doors blew open with thunderous force.

Two armed state police officers and a trained K-9 unit swept through the study entrance.

“Police! Drop the fire! Down on the floor now!”

The German shepherd barked ferociously, lunging forward on its harness.

The man dropped the lighter onto an unsoaked tile, raising his hands in sheer terror as the officers tackled him to the ground.

Both men were pinned, cuffed, and dragged out through the shattered terrace doors into the pouring rain.

Detective Miller walked in through the debris, surveying the gasoline cans and pry bars.

“Marcus had an offshore contingency fund set to execute if he was indicted,” Miller said grimly, looking at me. “He hired these two through a digital broker in Detroit.”

Miller kicked one of the gas cans outside onto the wet stone patio.

“That was his last card, Adrian. Every account tied to his name was frozen by federal marshals twenty minutes ago. It’s truly over now.”