When the bleeding patient in Trauma Two turned out to be the billionaire ex who vanished without a trace, my professional duty collided with a desperate urge to let him bleed.

The interior of Warehouse 7 smelled of dust, motor oil, and old rust.

We slipped through the service corridor into the administrative wing—a series of glass-walled offices suspended over the main shipping floor. Below us, rows of empty forklifts sat parked in neat rectangles under the harsh glare of overhead sodium lights.

"They're on the top floor in the primary conference room," Marcus whispered, checking a digital floor plan on his tablet. "Stairwell is clear, but there's a biometric lock on the double doors."

"Step aside," Ethan said quietly.

He pulled a small electronic bypass device from his pocket, plugged it into the maintenance port beside the keypad, and punched in a sequence of numbers based on his family's legacy encryption codes.

With a soft, pneumatic click, the heavy oak doors unlocked.

Ethan pushed them open just an inch, peering into the expansive penthouse office overlooking the entire warehouse floor.

Through the crack, I saw her.

Mia was sitting in a leather swivel chair at the center of the massive mahogany conference table. Her long, dark wavy hair was messy, and her small shoulders were shaking with silent sobs. She clutched a worn, plush stuffed animal tightly against her chest—her favorite golden-maned toy, Moonlight.

Standing behind her, holding a heavy-caliber pistol casually against her temple, was a tall, middle-aged man with sharp, thinning gray hair and cold, reptilian eyes.

Victor Blackwood.

"Well, well, well," Victor’s voice rang out through the cavernous office, rich with mocking amusement. "I told my men to wait for you at the hospital, Ethan, but I didn't expect you to check yourself out of intensive care just to deliver yourself to my doorstep."

Ethan didn't hesitate. He kicked the double doors wide open, stepping boldly into the room with his hands raised slightly to show he wasn't immediately drawing a weapon, shielding me behind his broad shoulder.

"Let the girl go, Victor," Ethan commanded, his voice vibrating with a lethal, controlled fury. "This is between you and me. She's a child. She has nothing to do with this."

Victor smiled, pressing the barrel of the pistol just a fraction closer to Mia’s temple. The little girl whimpered, burying her face into Moonlight's mane.

"Oh, but she has everything to do with it, dear nephew," Victor purred, his eyes darting from Ethan to me as I stepped out from behind Ethan's shadow. "The Blackwood bloodline... the rightful heirs to the entire empire. When I eliminate you, and then eliminate your little secret family here, the board will have no choice but to hand absolute control of the shipping consortium over to me."

"You're insane," Ethan stepped forward, his boots clicking against the polished hardwood floor. "The federal indictment for the Harbor Avenue ambush was signed an hour ago. Your accounts are frozen, your men are neutralized, and you are completely alone."

Victor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting toward the windows overlooking the warehouse floor below.

"You think a few frozen accounts can stop me?" Victor snarled, his grip on the pistol tightening. "If I can't have Blackwood Holdings, no one will!"

He cocked the hammer of the gun.

My heart stopped. The world seemed to slow down into agonizing, molasses-thick motion. I saw Victor's finger begin to whiten against the trigger. I saw Mia squeeze her eyes shut, trembling violently.

And then Ethan moved.

He didn't draw his gun. He lunged forward with the explosive, desperate speed of a father throwing himself between his child and certain death.