The heavy mahogany door swung shut with a muted thud that sounded like a gavel falling on a death sentence.

The meeting with Sal Valenti lasted exactly forty-two minutes.

It ended when I projected a forensic audit of Valenti Maritime’s secondary shell company onto the boardroom wall, revealing six million dollars in undeclared payroll taxes and two phantom shipping manifests originating from an unsanctioned port in Panama.

Sal Valenti, a squat, broad-shouldered man with pomade in his thinning hair and rings on four fingers, had looked at the spreadsheet, then at Vincent, and then at me.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, girl,” Valenti had spat, slamming his palms on the glass conference table. “Evan always said you were cold. I guess he found out how cold last night, didn't he?”

Vincent hadn’t moved a muscle. He had merely looked at Marcus, who was standing by the door.

“Escort Mr. Valenti to his vehicle,” Vincent had said evenly. “If his drivers aren't out of my garage in three minutes, impound them.”

Now, at three in the afternoon, the corporate war was momentarily quiet, but the personal bloodletting was just beginning.

I drove my silver sedan through the wrought-iron gates of St. Jude’s Senior Living Facility in Westchester. The autumn leaves were turning a sharp, violent crimson, blanketing the manicured lawns. This was the only place in the world where nobody cared about the Marlowe empire, harbor terminals, or public scandals.

Inside room 114, my mother was sitting in an armchair by the bay window, a patchwork quilt draped across her knees. Her silver hair was neatly brushed into a braid, and a small vase of orange marigolds sat on the bedside table.

Not lilies. Never lilies.

“Mom?” I said softly, stepping inside and pulling the door half-closed behind me.

Eleanor Montgomery turned her head. Her blue eyes, once so sharp they could spot a lie from three rooms away, were cloudy with the gentle, terrifying fog of early Alzheimer's.

“Claire,” she said, her lips curving into a frail, sweet smile. “You're late, sweet pea. The school bus dropped you off an hour ago.”

My chest squeezed with that familiar, hollow ache. I walked over, knelt beside her chair, and took her papery hands in mine. “I’m sorry, Mom. Work ran a little long today.”

“Work?” She frowned, her brow furrowing as she searched my face. “You're still in college, aren't you? Where is that boy? The polite one with the fancy watch?”

She meant Evan. Evan had visited her three times, always bringing massive bouquets of white flowers and speaking in a loud, boisterous voice, trying to charm a woman who couldn't remember what day of the week it was.

“He couldn't make it today,” I whispered.

“Good,” she murmured, looking back toward the garden outside. “He talks too fast. He acts like he's trying to buy something from an auction.” She tilted her head, her gaze drifting toward the door. “The other one came, though.”

I froze. “What?”

“The tall man. With the quiet boots.” My mother smiled faintly, patting my hand with her thumb. “He came on Tuesday. He brought the shortbread cookies with the raspberry jam from that bakery in Brooklyn. He didn't say much. He just sat over there in the chair and read his newspaper while I took my nap.”

My pulse pounded against my ribs.

Vincent had come here. On Tuesday. Without telling me. Two days before the engagement party.

“Did he say why he was here, Mom?”

“He said he was keeping watch,” she replied simply, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “He said the neighborhood was getting noisy, and he wanted to make sure nobody bothered my garden.”

A soft knock at the room door startled me.

I stood up quickly, turning around. It wasn't a nurse.

It was Marcus Vance. He was wearing an unassuming dark windbreaker, but the bulge beneath his left armpit was obvious to anyone who knew what to look for.

“Claire,” he said quietly, stepping into the entryway. “We have a problem.”

I looked at my mother, who had already drifted back to staring at the autumn leaves. I stepped out into the carpeted corridor, pulling the door shut behind me.

“What happened? Is it Vincent?”

“No. It’s Evan.” Marcus’s jaw was tight. “He didn't just run off to pout. Sal Valenti reached him four hours ago. Evan’s at The Foundry in Long Island City.”

The Foundry wasn't an event space anymore. It was an underground card room operated by the Valenti syndicate—a place where men with bad debts and worse tempers traded favors, narcotics, and blood.

“What is he doing there?” I demanded, ice spreading through my veins. “He knows Valenti is Vincent’s rival. He knows what they do to Marlowe associates who wander into Queens.”

“He’s not wandering,” Marcus said grimly. “He’s holding court. He’s drinking, he’s gambling on credit, and according to my guy inside, he’s talking about how his father runs the logistics routes. He’s selling the family’s soft underbelly to prove he’s a grown man.”

“Vincent will kill him,” I whispered.