AT TWO IN THE MORNING, I DISCOVERED A SIX-YEAR-OLD GIRL CLEANING MY PRIVATE STUDY WITH A BABY STRAPPED TO HER BACK, TERRIFIED THAT HER MOTHER WOULD LOSE HER JOB AND LEAVE THEM HOMELESS. BUT WHAT FROZE ME WASN'T HER TINY HANDS STRUGGLING WITH A VACUUM NEARLY AS LARGE AS SHE WAS. IT WAS WHEN SHE STARED AT MY LIBRARY WALL AND SOFTLY ASKED, "Mr. Duca... why does someone keep knocking from inside there?"

Vance didn't argue. He knew that when Gabriel Duca gave an order in this tone, hesitation was fatal. Within ninety seconds, Vance had guided the fragile old man, Maya, and the infant out through the carriage house tunnel that led to the private subterranean garage on Chestnut Street.

The heavy iron door clicked shut. The house fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.

I walked to the sideboard, poured three fingers of single malt scotch, and drank it in one long, burning draught.

Then I walked over to the portrait of my late father, Alexander Duca, hanging above the marble hearth. The oil painting showed him in his prime—impeccably tailored, cold-eyed, an architect who had carved Boston's modern skyline out of political favors, union kickbacks, and ruthless litigation.

"You knew," I whispered to the canvas. "You helped Marcus Hayes build the labyrinth, and when you realized he was an animal you couldn't control, you locked his architect in the basement and pretended the world was civilized."

A faint *thud* sounded from the front terrace.

It was not the sound of wind. It was the distinct impact of a tactical boot landing on the bluestone pavers.

I set the crystal tumbler down on the mantelpiece and drew my weapon.

The Duca mansion on Mount Vernon Street had not been renovated merely for luxury. When my father rebuilt the estate in 1988, he had spent nearly four million dollars installing mechanical countermeasures disguised as historic architecture. Behind the silk wallpaper were sheets of three-quarter-inch ballistic steel. The windows on the ground floor were laminated polycarbonate capable of stopping 7.62x39 rounds.

I walked to the grandfather clock in the corner of the study, swung open the glass face, and pulled the bronze counterweight on the far left.

A heavy hydraulic hiss echoed through the floorboards.

Steel shutters descended behind the heavy velvet drapes across every window on the first floor, plunging the study into absolute darkness, illuminated only by the faint green phosphorescence of the emergency exit signs.