That was the record. Most caretakers lasted exactly 72 hours inside the Graham estate before fleeing through its iron

The victory at the Foundry bought the Graham syndicate immediate peace on the streets, but inside the estate, a different kind of war was brewing.

It was 2:00 AM on Friday morning. Narin had been at the estate for nearly six days. She had officially shattered every record in the syndicate’s history.

Narin walked down the dimly lit corridor of the west wing, carrying a basket of fresh linens. Her feet ached, her shoulders were stiff, but her mind was remarkably light. Tomorrow was Friday. Tomorrow, Mrs. Gibson would hand her four envelope-wrapped bills containing $4,000 in cash. Her back rent would be paid. Her eviction notice would be torn up. She would survive.

As she passed the grand staircase, she heard low, hushed voices coming from the secondary library below.

Narin stopped in her tracks.

Normally, she would have kept walking. A maid who minds her own business lives a long life. But she recognized one of the voices instantly.

It was Victor.

Narin pressed her back against the cool marble wall, easing toward the arched doorway of the library. She peeked through the crack between the heavy mahogany doors.

Victor was standing near the fireplace, holding a secure satellite phone to his ear. Standing beside him was a man Narin had never seen before—a tall man wearing a dark trench coat with a scar running through his left eyebrow.

"He put a knife through Rossi’s foot," Victor was saying into the phone, his voice tense and hushed. "The old man is terrifying when he wants to be, but he’s physical wreckage afterward. He was practically unconscious by the time we got him back to the estate."

Narin’s breath hitched in her throat.

"No," Victor continued, listening to the voice on the other end. "He still trusts me completely. He thinks Rossi is the only threat. He has no idea the real breach is coming from inside."

The scarred man beside Victor spoke up in a low rasp. "When do we move?"

"Tomorrow night during the storm," Victor said, turning his back to the door. "The external guards are rotating shifts at midnight. I'll disable the silent alarms on the east wing terrace. You bring four guys, go straight to his bedroom, and finish what the car bomb started three years ago. Once Declan is dead, I take over the syndicate, and Carmine gets his harbor rights."

Narin’s heart hammered violently against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Victor—Declan’s most trusted right-hand man, the man who had served the family for a decade—was the one who had set up the car bomb three years ago. And he was planning to murder Declan in his sleep tomorrow night.

Narin took a slow, silent step backward, her loafers making no sound on the thick runner rug.

Suddenly, her heel caught the edge of a small decorative brass umbrella stand near the door.

CLANG!

The metallic ring echoed through the empty hallway like a alarm bell.

"Who’s there?!" Victor’s voice roared from inside the library.

Narin didn't hesitate. She threw the linen basket to the floor, turned on her heel, and sprinted down the dark hallway as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Hey! Stop!" the scarred man shouted, the heavy thud of his boots echoing behind her.

Narin darted into the service hallway, taking a sharp left toward the kitchen. She knew the layout of the estate better than anyone now—she had scrubbed every inch of it over the last six days. She slipped into the walk-in pantry, ducked behind a massive shelf of canned goods, and pulled her knees tight against her chest, pressing her hand over her mouth to muffle her gasping breath.

Heavy footsteps thundered past the pantry door.

"Did you see who it was?" the scarred man’s voice echoed from the hallway.

"No," Victor growled. "It was dark. Probably one of the late-night cleaning staff."

"If they heard us, Victor—"

"If it was a maid, she won't say a word if she wants to keep her job," Victor snapped. "Check the servant quarters. If anyone looks suspicious, eliminate them quietly. We can't let anything mess up tomorrow night."

The footsteps slowly faded away down the corridor.

Narin remained frozen in the dark pantry for ten minutes, her body shaking with cold terror.

She was just a maid. She made $4,000 a week. She had no gun, no power, no mob family backing her up. The sensible thing—the smart thing, the survival instinct that had kept her alive her whole life—was to pack her small tote bag right now, slip out the servant entrance, and never look back.

She owed Declan Graham nothing. He had thrown glass at her head, knocked soup onto her shoes, and barked orders at her for six days.

Narin slowly closed her eyes, picturing Declan sitting alone in that dark room, trapped in a wheelchair, surrounded by men who claimed to serve him while plotting his execution. She remembered the touch of his hot, feverish hand when he took his pills. She remembered the fierce, protective fury in his eyes when Rossi had tried to humiliate him.

He wasn't just a mob boss. He was a human being trapped in a cage surrounded by wolves.