“Look under the table, sir.” Roman Vale did not answer at first. At the head of the long walnut dining table, he had been listening to Graham Pierce explain why a waterfront shipping contract needed Roman’s signature before noon.

The rain poured heavily over the industrial district of Baltimore. Pier 4 was a secluded, rusty expanse of shipping containers, crane towers, and abandoned brick warehouses that belonged exclusively to Vale Logistics.

Inside Warehouse 3, the air was cold and smelled of saltwater, rusted iron, and diesel fuel.

Graham Pierce was tied to a heavy steel chair beneath a single hanging bulb. His expensive suit was torn at the shoulder, his hair disheveled, and his face pale with exhaustion and terror.

The heavy sliding doors of the warehouse screeched open.

Roman Vale walked in, dressed in a long black overcoat, accompanied by Eli and two armed operatives. His footsteps echoed loudly against the wet concrete floor.

Graham looked up, blinking against the harsh light of the hanging bulb.

"Roman!" Graham rasped, his voice hoarse from yelling. "You can't do this! You're breaking federal laws! If my lawyers don't hear from me by six o'clock, they’re calling the FBI!"

Roman stopped five feet from the chair, staring down at Graham with cold, unyielding eyes.

"Your lawyers won't be calling anyone, Graham," Roman said calmly, pulling a thick stack of legal documents from his coat pocket. "Because twenty minutes ago, federal agents raided your private office in Annapolis. They found the offshore banking records, the tax evasion files, and the wiretap logs you kept on the harbor board."

Graham’s jaw dropped. "How... how did they get a warrant?"

"I gave it to them," Roman said smoothly. "Along with my mother’s ledger, the wire transfer receipts from 1998, and a sworn confession regarding the murder of my father."

"You... you went to the authorities?" Graham gasped, stunned. "You never go to the police! You handle things internally!"

"I handle business internally," Roman corrected him softly. "I handle trash through the proper waste management channels."

Graham stared at him in disbelief, realizing that his entire network of influence, bribe money, and corporate leverage had vanished in a matter of hours.

"There's something else you should know, Graham," Roman added, leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees. "Do you remember Clara Vale?"

Graham stiffened instantly, his eyes widening in pure horror. "Clara... Clara is dead. She died thirty years ago."

"She didn't die," Roman said softly. "She lived a long life in Pennsylvania. And eighteen months ago, her granddaughter, Megan, came to work in my house."

Graham looked as if he had been struck by lightning. "What?"

"Megan’s daughter, Sadie, was the little girl who picked up the bow key under my dining table today," Roman said, a tiny, cold smile appearing on his face. "The key you dropped when you tried to steal my mother’s truth. A four-year-old child—Clara’s great-granddaughter—is the person who brought you down."

Graham shook his head frantically, his mind collapsing under the sheer weight of poetic justice. "No... no, that’s impossible... that’s impossible!"

"It’s not only possible, Graham, it’s settled," Roman said, standing up straight. "Clara’s twenty-five percent stake in Vale Logistics was never legally dissolved because her stock transfer was signed under duress. My lawyers are reinstating her shares today. They are being transferred directly into a educational trust fund for Sadie Cole."

Graham slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed blankly on the concrete floor, completely broken.

Roman turned his back on him and walked toward the exit.

"What do we do with him, Boss?" Eli asked, gesturing toward Graham.

"Leave him for the federal marshals," Roman replied without looking back. "They’ll be here in ten minutes. Make sure he’s sitting right under the light when they arrive."

As Roman stepped out into the rain, he pulled the brass bow key from his pocket one last time. He looked up at the grey sky, feeling the cold rain against his face, feeling a strange, unfamiliar sensation rising in his chest.