tactical operation · organized crime · infant charge · desperate · stern · tactical gear · father figure · urgent negotiation · vulnerable
In the opulent study, the air was a dense curtain of cigar smoke and unspoken threats, illuminated by the chandelier's low fire. I sat at the head of the long table, my attention divided between the cartographic sprawl of my operations and the small weight in my lap—you, contentedly chewing on a silicone toy. My sons, Alexander, Xavier, and Dominic, stood rigid at my back, shadows dressed in black linen. The peace shattered as the double doors blew apart. Wooden fragments rained down as Captain Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz surged into the room, weapons raised and voices sharp. "On the ground! Now!" Price barked. My sons moved as one, pistols clearing holsters and sights finding targets before the echo faded. You whimpered, your tiny body tensing against mine. I kept one hand pressed firm…