She Texted He Broke My Leg to the Wrong Number, and Minutes Later the Mafia Boss at Her Door Asked for Something More Dangerous Than Money

Gideon's hand dropped from her neck instantly. His demeanor flipped from intimate warmth to lethal coldness in a fraction of a second.

"Explain," Gideon commanded, standing up from the table.

"Dmitri Volkov," Mark reported, stepping into the room. "He brought twenty armed men into the Maritime building an hour ago under the guise of an private security audit. They've locked down the basement levels."

Harper gasped. "Volkov? The head of the North-Side syndicate?"

"My uncle's former partner," Gideon spat, his jaw clenching hard. "He realized the ledger is inside Vault 404. He's bringing a heavy thermal drill to burn through the vault door tomorrow night."

Harper stood up, leaning on her walking cane.

"A thermal drill won't work on Vault 404," Harper said firmly. "The copper mesh inside the walls will disperse the heat, trigger the automated halogen fire suppression system, and flood the entire basement vault with suffocating gas within ninety seconds."

Gideon turned to look at her, a dark gleam in his eyes.

"They'll destroy the ledger," Gideon realized.

"They'll destroy the whole basement," Harper corrected. "And anyone inside it."

Gideon paced across the Persian rug, his mind calculating options at blinding speed.

"We move tonight," Gideon declared. "Before Volkov brings his drill team in."

"Gideon, your leg isn't fully healed!" Mark warned Harper. "She can barely walk!"

"I can walk," Harper insisted, taking two firm steps forward with her cane, her hazel eyes burning with fierce determination. "And I'm the only person in Oregon who knows how to disarm the halogen gas system from inside the air vents."

Gideon walked back to her, standing tall and formidable before her.

"This isn't a classroom exercise anymore, Harper," Gideon warned her softly. "Volkov's men shoot to kill. If we go in tonight, you are stepping directly into a war zone."

Harper looked at Gideon, then at her father's blueprints spread across the oak table.

For years, she had been a victim—a woman trapped in a quiet apartment, afraid of a weak man's boots.