He thought he traded his ex-wife for a younger model, until she walked into a charity gala with five-year-old triplets he never knew existed.

“Federal warrants?” Gabriel muttered, the name clicking into place with terrifying speed. “Julian didn't just try to steal my assets—he sold me out to the Southern District to clear his own path.”

The private elevator chime echoed down the hallway like a death knell.

Ding.

“Boss, we have less than sixty seconds before they breach the double doors,” Dante urged, stepping inside the room and slamming the heavy oak deadbolt shut from the inside. “The freight stairs are compromised. Our only way out is through the service catwark connecting to the adjacent tower.”

Gabriel didn't hesitate. All traces of hesitation vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating tactical mind that had kept him alive at the top of the New York underworld for a decade.

He turned to his security chief. “Dante, take the boys through the catwalk. Get them into the armored town car in the subterranean loading bay. Take them straight to the North Salem estate and activate lockdown protocol Delta-Nine.”

“Dad?” Julian piped up from the corner, his small brow furrowing in a replica of Gabriel’s own expression. “Where are we going? Who are those men outside?”

I didn't wait for Gabriel to answer. I marched across the room, grabbed my three boys by their hands, and pulled them toward Dante.

“I’m going with them,” I said firmly, looking straight into Gabriel’s eyes.

“No,” Gabriel replied instantly. “It’s too dangerous. If the feds or Julian’s loyalists track us—”

“I am not leaving you here to clean up a war you let into your house, Gabriel!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the noise of pounding fists on the heavy oak door outside. “You want to play mob boss and protect your empire? Fine. But my sons go with me, or we stay right here together.”

Gabriel stared at me, the tension in his jaw locking into an immovable wall. Then, seeing the fierce, unyielding defiance in my eyes—the exact same look he had fallen in love with six years ago—he nodded once.

“Dante. Take all four of them. If anyone tries to stop you, put a bullet in their knee,” Gabriel commanded.

“Got it, boss,” Dante muttered, pulling a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster and motioning urgently to the boys. “Come on, guys. We’re going on a fast adventure.”

“Wait!” Serena cried out from the settee, scrambling to her feet as Dante ushered the boys toward the hidden service panel behind the mahogany bar. “Gabriel, you can’t leave me here! The feds have warrants for the whole corporation! They’ll arrest me too!”

Gabriel didn't even look at her as she rushed toward him. He simply raised his left hand and shoved her firmly back against the velvet cushions with one fluid motion.

“You wanted to protect the empire, Serena?” Gabriel said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “Enjoy the federal indictment.”

He turned away from her as the heavy oak door splintered under the force of a battering ram.

Crash!

The wood cracked, and the upper panels gave way, revealing the dark, tactical helmets and riot shields of federal agents pouring into the antechamber.

“Federal agents! Nobody move! Hands where we can see them!” a voice roared from the corridor.

Dante shoved the last of the boys through the narrow service panel, sliding the heavy steel door shut and locking it from the inside just as the main dining room doors flew off their hinges.

Gabriel stood alone in the center of the expansive room, his hands casually resting in his pockets, his shoulders square beneath the Tom Ford tuxedo, waiting for the wolves to close in.

I stood beside him, refusing to take another step toward the escape hatch.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel hissed out of the side of his mouth as the first federal marshals swarmed into the room with drawn sidearms. “I told you to go with Dante!”

“And I told you I’m not leaving,” I whispered back, stepping closer and sliding my hand into his large, warm palm.

Gabriel looked down at our joined hands, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion. Before he could speak, Assistant U.S. Attorney Arthur Vance stepped through the swarm of agents, a smug, triumphant smile spread across his thin face.

“Well, well, well,” Vance sneered, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as he looked around the ruined room. “Gabriel Cross. At the end of the day, even the great king of New York falls to a paper trail.”

Gabriel didn't flinch. He squeezed my hand once—hard, grounding, and absolute—before stepping forward to face the law.

“You’re a bit premature with the victory lap, Arthur,” Gabriel said, his voice echoing smoothly across the room. “A paper trail only works if the ink isn't forged.”

Vance’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that every single document your office used to secure these warrants was funneled through an unregistered shell company owned and operated by Julian Vale,” Gabriel said, stepping closer until Vance was forced to look up at him. “And as of ten minutes ago, my legal team filed a federal injunction exposing Julian’s embezzlement, his forged financial instruments, and his direct collusion with your office to weaponize the DOJ for a corporate hostile takeover.”

Vance’s face turned the color of curdled milk. “That’s—that’s a lie! We have signed affidavits—”

“Signed by a man who is currently being handcuffed by my security team and delivered to the nearest federal magistrate for perjury,” Gabriel finished smoothly.

He looked around the room at the circle of armed agents, then back at Vance.

“Now,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, quiet register that made mountains move. “You have two choices. You can drop your weapons, apologize for breaking into my private dining room, and walk out that door before my lawyers sue this department into bankruptcy... or we can stay right here and let the media find out why the Assistant U.S. Attorney is running errands for a felon.”

Vance stared at Gabriel, his chest heaving, his fingers twitching over the holster at his hip. For ten seconds, the entire room held its collective breath.

Then, very slowly, Vance lowered his hand.

“Clear the room,” Vance spat out through clenched teeth, glaring daggers at Gabriel. “This isn't over, Cross.”

“It’s exactly over,” Gabriel replied.

As the federal agents backed out of the room in sullen silence, leaving Gabriel and me standing alone amidst the broken timber of the oak door, I let out a long, shuddering breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Gabriel turned to me, his dark eyes searching my face with a desperate, burning intensity.

“Claire,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Does this mean… is there any chance at all that we can—?”

Before he could finish the sentence, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket.

I pulled it out. It was a text message from Dante Russo, accompanied by a secure photo attachment.

“Safe and sound at the North Salem estate, boss. The boys are eating ice cream in the kitchen. But we’ve got a visitor at the front gate asking for you, Mrs. Cross.”

I tapped the photo attachment to expand it.

Standing outside the iron security gates of the Westchester mansion, drenched in the pouring rain, was my younger brother, Mateo—holding the old leather wedding album in his hands.