The heavy silver dessert fork remained where Dr. Harris had dropped it, resting on a white linen napkin beside the shattered porcelain on the Italian marble floor.

By dawn, the autumn mist had cleared, replaced by a harsh, glaring sunlight that cast long shadows across the manicured lawns of the estate.

Upstairs in the private family quarters, Ethan had woken up and was sitting at the kitchen island eating a bowl of oatmeal, supervised by Dr. Harris, who confirmed that his vital signs were completely normal. Sophia stood nearby, pouring fresh coffee into a ceramic mug, her eyes heavy with the lack of sleep but filled with quiet resolve.

I walked into the kitchen, my suit jacket removed, my tie loosened at the collar.

"How is he?" I asked softly, nodding toward my son.

"My tummy feels fine, Dad," Ethan piped up before the doctor could answer. "Can I go outside and see the puppy?"

I looked down at him, feeling a sharp pang of protective guilt. "Not today, buddy. Today, we stay inside where the security is tight."

Dr. Harris packed his medical bag, snapping the latches shut. "Physically, he’s out of danger, Dominic. The stabilizer worked, and the toxin hadn't entered his bloodstream. But psychologically... well, he knows someone tried to hurt him."

"He's a Moretti," I said grimly. "He'll learn how to protect himself."

"That's a heavy burden for an eight-year-old," Sophia interjected quietly, setting the coffee mug down on the counter in front of me.

I picked up the mug, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat ground me. "It's the only life he has, Sophia. And my job is to make sure he gets to live it."

My phone buzzed on the counter. It wasn't an encrypted warning this time. It was a standard, high-priority satellite call from Arthur Vance—not my cousin Victor, but my uncle Arthur, the retired patriarch of the extended family who lived quietly in upstate New York and controlled our shipping alliances in international waters.

I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Dominic," Arthur’s gravelly voice came through the speaker. "I heard about the lockdown at the estate last night. Word travels fast when the Westchester gates are bolted against the city."

"Marcus was a traitor," I said bluntly. "He worked with the Brighton syndicate to compromise the shipping ledgers and target Ethan."

A heavy sigh echoed on the other end of the line. "I warned you years ago about bringing outsiders into the core security team, Dominic. You wanted corporate polish; you got corporate betrayal."

"Where do we stand with the international shipping trust?" I asked, cutting straight to the point.

"That's why I'm calling," Arthur said, his tone turning grave. "The Brighton syndicate isn't just a local gang operating out of Brooklyn docks anymore. They’ve aligned themselves with a transnational cartel out of Eastern Europe. They aren't content with skimming profits from our ports anymore. They want total control of the Hudson shipping lanes—and they've scheduled a hostile takeover meeting for tomorrow night at the private club in Manhattan."

I stared out the kitchen window, watching the gardeners quietly prune the rose bushes near the terrace.

"A meeting," I said coldly.

"An ultimatum," Arthur corrected. "They expect you to walk into their clubhouse alone, sign over your shipping equity, and walk away into quiet retirement. If you refuse, they launch the federal indictments using the stolen files Marcus leaked, and they burn Moretti Holdings to the ground."

"Let them try," I said.

"Dominic, be smart," Arthur warned. "These men don't play by traditional rules. They have political backing in Washington and local judges in their pockets. If you walk into that clubhouse without a plan, you won't walk out."

"I never walk into a room without a plan, Uncle," I replied. "Tell the eastern docks to double their night patrols. And get word to our legal team in Manhattan—we're filing an emergency injunction against the syndicate's front companies by noon."

I hung up the phone before Arthur could argue further.

Sophia had been standing near the sink, listening to every word. When I turned around, she was drying her hands on a linen towel, her expression unreadable.

"You're going to Manhattan," she stated.

"I have to," I replied. "If I show weakness now, every rival syndicate from here to Boston will smell blood in the water. They came after my son inside my own house. I am going to finish this."

Sophia walked slowly across the kitchen floor until she stood right in front of me. She looked up into my eyes, her gaze steady, carrying a quiet strength that commanded respect without ever raising her voice.

"Be careful, Dominic," she said softly. "Ethan needs his father. And... some of us have grown used to having you around."