The Silent Four-Year-Old Hadn’t Spoken in Two Years—Until the nanny shielded him from a bullet and he made a sound that shattered his father.

The storm was deafening.

Pine branches whipped against Damian’s face as he plunged deeper into the dark, snow-choked forest. Visibility was less than ten feet. The sound of the wind obscured all footsteps, making it impossible to track Viktor by sound alone.

Damian slowed his pace, his gun raised, his chest heaving with cold air that burned his lungs.

Red blood dripped onto the white snow in front of him.

Viktor was hit. One of Damian’s shots through the library window had grazed the mercenary’s shoulder.

Damian followed the red trail, his senses hyper-attuned to every shadow moving between the towering trunks.

Suddenly, a heavy body hit Damian from the side.

The force of the tackle slammed Damian into the frozen trunk of a massive pine tree, knocking his pistol out of his hand. The weapon skidded into the deep snow and vanished.

Viktor snarled, his scarred face twisted with rage as he pressed a heavy forearm against Damian’s throat, pinning him against the tree.

“You should have stayed in Los Angeles, Blackwood!” Viktor growled, pulling a tactical combat knife from his belt.

Damian choked for air, his vision darkening around the edges. He reached up, grabbing Viktor’s wrist with both hands, using every ounce of strength he possessed to hold the razor-sharp blade inches from his own eye.

“My wife...” Damian choked out, his eyes blazing with fury. “My son...”

“Your wife died crying!” Viktor laughed, pressing the knife lower. “And your little boy will join her soon enough!”

With a surge of violent adrenaline, Damian slammed his forehead straight into Viktor’s nose.

CRACK!

Viktor yelled out, his grip slipping as blood spurted from his broken nose.

Damian didn't waste a microsecond. He drove a heavy knee into Viktor’s wounded shoulder, then threw a brutal right hook that sent the mercenary staggering back into the snow.

Viktor lunged forward again, swinging the knife in wide, lethal arcs.

Damian dodged left, the blade slicing through his heavy winter coat, cutting a shallow line across his ribs. Pain flared like liquid fire, but Damian ignored it. He grabbed Viktor’s outstretched arm, twisted it violently behind his back, and slammed the mercenary face-first into a jagged rock protruding from the snow.

THUD!

Viktor collapsed onto his back, gasping for air, the knife falling from his limp fingers.

Damian stood over him, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his side onto the pristine white snow. He reached down, picked up the tactical knife, and placed the tip directly against Viktor’s throat.

“Give me the name,” Damian growled, his body shaking with rage. “Who bought Vanguard? Who owns the offshore shell companies?”

Viktor spat blood onto Damian’s boot, grinning through his shattered teeth. “You think... you think this ends with Sterling? You think this ends with me?”

“Name!” Damian demanded, pressing the steel until a droplet of dark blood welled on Viktor’s neck.

“It’s your own foundation, billionaire,” Viktor rasped, his eyes wide with dark amusement. “The money didn't go to Panama. It went to a trust fund... registered in your late wife’s name.”

Damian froze. The world seemed to stop spinning.