Eloin Harrow’s voice did not tremble. It did not carry the desperate pitch of someone begging to be heard; it filled the Harrington Club’s high-ceilinged private lounge like a blade sliding from a leather scabbard.

The immediate fallout of Blaine’s downfall was not a quiet surrender across the Eastern seaboard, but a sudden, icy silence. For forty-eight hours, the usual chatter along the docks and encrypted channels went dead.

Eloin sat in the central command suite of the Voss tower, surrounded by six monitors displaying real-time financial tracking, port logs, and encrypted communications traffic. Her hair was swept up, her sleeves pushed past her elbows. Beside her sat a cold cup of black tea.

Callahan walked in, tossing a heavy leather folder onto the desk. He smelled of rain, cold leather, and tobacco. He leaned down, placing one large hand on the back of her ergonomic chair, his chest pressing lightly against her shoulder.

"The docks are quiet," Callahan said, his voice deep, gravelly from lack of sleep. "Too quiet. Blaine’s remnant lieutenants aren't running. They're sitting in their safehouses waiting for a signal."

"They aren't waiting for a signal from inside the country," Eloin replied without turning her head, her fingers flying over the mechanical keyboard. "Look at this."

She highlighted a series of micro-transactions cascading through a private clearinghouse in Zurich.

"Blaine wasn't acting alone," she continued, zooming in on an encrypted routing protocol. "He was receiving liquidity injections from a shadow entity based out of Marseille—the Moretti Syndicate. They’ve been trying to break into the Connecticut maritime trade routes for five years. Sterling kept them out by holding the master port concessions."

Callahan’s eyes narrowed, his posture instantly stiffening. "Moretti. Jean-Luc Moretti."

"Yes," Eloin said. "When Blaine failed to seize control of the trust at the Harrington Club, Moretti initiated an automated retaliatory protocol. He isn't trying to buy us out anymore, Callahan. He’s attempting a hostile digital wipe. They are systematically attacking our secondary shell companies, triggering red-flag audits with international regulators."

Callahan leaned down closer, his face inches from hers. The warm scent of him cut through the sterile air of the computer room. "Can you stop them?"

Eloin turned her face slightly, her dark eyes meeting his. A slow, razor-sharp smile touched her lips. "Stop them? No. I’m going to redirect their routing protocols into an offshore sinkhole I built three years ago. By dawn, Jean-Luc Moretti will realize he just transferred forty million Euros of his own capital into a non-recoverable trust controlled by the Voss estate."

Callahan stared at her for a moment, then let out a low, breathless laugh that reverberated against her back. He reached down, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "You are terrifying, little mouse."

"I am efficient," she corrected, though her pulse fluttered beneath his touch. "Now let me work. If I miss a decimal point, we accidentally fund the French coast guard."

"Working," Callahan agreed, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to the crown of her head before straightening up. "I’ll take a tactical squad to Bridgeport. If Moretti realizes his money is gone, he’s going to try to burn the physical manifests at the secondary warehouse."

"Take Marcus Vance’s men with you," Eloin warned, looking up. "Test their loyalty while the stakes are clear."