The gala was no longer a party. It was a cage.
Aria stared at the phone screen. The red numbers 220 BPM flashed rhythmically, a silent countdown to her daughter's heart failure.
Damien saw it too.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't waste time cursing Volkov. The Devil of Wall Street simply vanished, replaced by the Father.
We are leaving, Damien stated. It wasn't a suggestion.
He grabbed Aria's wrist, his grip bruisingly tight, and turned toward the massive oak doors. But the room had changed. The shock of Aria's entrance had worn off, replaced by the confusion of the blackout and the Oracle's screaming prophecy.
And standing between them and the exit was Elder Thorne.
The old man had recovered his nerve. He stood with four tactical security guards, blocking the main archway. Behind him, the heavy doors were being barred shut.
You cannot leave! Thorne shouted, his voice shaking with righteous indignation. There is an active investigation! The Oracle has accused you of harboring a plague carrier!
Move, Damien growled. His canines lengthened, snapping down over his bottom lip.
Thorne didn't move. Seize them! He ordered the guards.
The guards hesitated, eyeing the silver collar around Aria's neck, but duty outweighed fear. Two of them lunged forward, reaching for Damien to bypass the silver threat of the woman.
Time didn't slow down. It accelerated.
Aria stepped in front of Damien. She didn't calculate. She just reacted.
When the first guard reached for her, she caught his wrist.
Contact.
The guard screamed—a raw, wet sound. Smoke curled up from where Aria's skin touched his. Her body was currently a conduit for the pure, concentrated energy of the Sinclair Collar. To a normal wolf, touching her was like grabbing a live power line.
The guard fell back, clutching his arm. The flesh where she had grabbed him was blackened, cauterized instantly.
Get out of my way, Aria said. Her voice was calm, but it was the calm of a hurricane eye.
Thorne's face went pale. You... you just assaulted a Council enforcer!
I will kill him next time, Aria promised.
She took a step forward. The remaining three guards scrambled backward, tripping over their own feet to get away from the toxic radiation she was emitting.
Thorne scrambled aside, pressing his back against the stone archway.
Damien kicked the locking bar off the doors. With a grunt of effort, he shoved the heavy oak panels open.
Cold night air rushed in, hitting them like a slap.
They ran.
But as they sprinted down the stone steps, a convoy of black SUVs screeched around the corner, blocking the driveway. Council reinforcements.
Their own limousine was boxed in. The driver was already on the ground, hands zip-tied.
Damien cursed. He looked at the blocked exit, then at Aria.
The exit is compromised, Damien said. He pointed to a side alley where a lone Ducati motorcycle was parked—likely belonging to one of the kitchen staff.
Take the bike, Damien ordered.
What? No! Aria grabbed his sleeve. We go together!
It won't carry both of us, not with that dress, not at the speed you need to go, Damien said. He looked at the SUVs. Men in tactical gear were pouring out.
He grabbed her face in his hands.
Listen to me! You have ten minutes before Mia's heart stops. You can't fight them and save her.
But you—
I will buy you time, Damien cut her off. He pulled the key card for the penthouse elevator from his pocket and shoved it into her hand. Go to the roof. The pilot is waiting.
He kissed her hard on the mouth—a taste of blood and desperation.
Save our daughter, Aria.
Damien turned and walked toward the incoming Council guards. He buttoned his jacket. He cracked his knuckles. He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like a predator preparing to slaughter a herd.
Aria didn't look back. She couldn't.
She sprinted to the Ducati. She didn't have a key, but she didn't need one. She placed her hand on the ignition. The silver ring on her finger flared. The bike's electrical system shorted, then roared to life, hot-wired by her own energy.
She kicked the stand up. The heavy metal dress was cumbersome, the scales scraping against the machinery, but she ignored it.
She gunned the engine and shot into the alleyway, disappearing into the night just as the first gunshots rang out behind her.
---
She drove with zero regard for her own life.
The city was a blur of neon streaks. She ran red lights, wove through gridlock, and took corners so sharp her metal dress sparked against the asphalt.
She reached the Sinclair Tower in seven minutes.
She abandoned the bike in the lobby, sprinting past the terrified concierge.
Override the elevators! Emergency Protocol Alpha! she screamed.
The elevator shot upward. Her ears popped.
Come on, come on...
Ding.
The penthouse doors slid open.
The silence was absolute.
Leo! Aria screamed.
She ran toward the office. The vault door was still closed, the heavy steel wheel locked in place.
She grabbed the wheel. It was cold.
She spun it. Or she tried to.
It didn't move.
The digital panel next to the vault flashed red: **SYSTEM LOCKDOWN. EXTERNAL HACK. AIR SUPPLY: CRITICAL.**
Volkov. He had locked the vault from the outside. He had turned the safe room into a tomb.
Aria pounded on the steel door. Her metal dress clanged against the metal vault.
Leo! Open the door!
Silence.
She pressed her ear against the cold steel. With her heightened senses, amplified by the collar, she strained to hear anything.
She heard a faint, rhythmic thumping.
*Thump... thump... thump...*
It was too slow. Far too slow.
It was Mia's heart, entering the final crash.
Aria stepped back. She looked at the vault door. Six inches of reinforced tungsten steel.
She couldn't tear it down. She wasn't a god.
But she was an Argenti.
Aria placed both hands on the locking mechanism. She closed her eyes. She reached out with her mind, feeling for the metal internals of the lock.
She found the tumblers. They were fused shut by the electronic hack.
Move, she whispered.
She poured the energy from the collar into the door. It wasn't easy. It felt like pushing her hands into a blast furnace. The silver collar heated up, burning her neck. The ring on her finger felt like it was melting into her bone.
Aria screamed.
Blood started to trickle from her nose. The strain was tearing her capillaries apart.
The metal of the door groaned. The lock didn't break—it *liquefied*. The heat she was generating melted the internal pins.
CLICK.
The mechanism gave way.
Aria collapsed against the wheel, heaving for breath, her hands blistered and shaking. She grabbed the handle and pulled.
The heavy door swung inward.
She stumbled inside.
Leo was sitting on the floor, his headphones around his neck, his face pale and wet with tears. He was holding Mia's hand.
Mia was lying on the pile of blankets. She was blue. Her lips were purple. She wasn't moving.
Mom! Leo sobbed. She stopped shaking! She just stopped!
Aria fell to her knees. She pulled out the emergency epi-pen she carried everywhere.
She jammed it into Mia's thigh.
Nothing happened.
Mia's chest didn't rise.
No. No, no, no.
Aria placed her hands on Mia's tiny chest. Her own hands were raw, burnt from the effort of opening the door.
She looked at the silver collar around her own neck. It was still humming, still full of lethal, ancient energy.
The Oracle had said: *The rot blooms.*
Rot was biological. Silver was the cleanser.
It was a gamble. A terrible, desperate gamble.
Aria unclasped the Sinclair Collar. The sudden loss of connection made her dizzy, almost vomiting.
Mom? What are you doing? Leo whispered.
Aria didn't answer. She placed the heavy silver collar gently onto Mia's small, fragile chest, right over her heart.
Breathe, Aria commanded. Her voice broke. Please, baby. Breathe.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, the diamonds on the collar flashed. A pulse of white energy rippled through the metal, sinking into Mia's skin like a defibrillator shock.
Mia's body arched off the floor with a violent crack. A scream tore from her throat—a sound of pure agony.
She gasped, sucking in a massive breath.
She fell back onto the blankets, panting, her skin flushing from blue to a feverish red.
Mia? Aria whispered, reaching out to touch her face.
Mia opened her eyes.
Aria froze. Leo gasped and scrambled backward.
Mia's eyes were no longer hazel.
They were silver. Not glowing like Aria's—they were solid, metallic mercury. Cold. Alien.
Mia looked at her mother. She didn't smile. She didn't cry.
She looked at the burnt skin on Aria's hands.
It hurts, Mama, Mia whispered. Her voice sounded strange—layered, like two people speaking at once.
What hurts, baby? Aria asked, terrified.
Everything, Mia said.
She sat up. As she moved, the shadows in the room seemed to bend toward her, drawn to the new gravity of her existence.
Mia looked at the open vault door.
They are coming, she said.
Who? Aria asked.
The ones in the sky, Mia answered.
Above them, on the roof, the sound of helicopter blades chopping the air suddenly changed pitch. It wasn't the rhythmic *thwup-thwup* of a transport.
It was the scream of a gunship.
Aria looked up at the ceiling.
Damien hadn't just been fighting the Council.
Volkov had called in the Russians.