The library had not changed since Isabelle died. That was the cruelty of it. A man who could reshape the docks, buy judges, and silence district attorneys found himself utterly powerless against a roll-top walnut desk and two rows of poetry books.

By 5:00 PM, the rain began.

Heavy, gray drops lashed against the library windows, turning the Long Island sound into a dark, churning void.

I sat at Isabelle’s desk with the metal drive plugged into my laptop. The screen glowed with scanned documents, bank transfers, wire receipts from Swiss accounts, and shipping logs bearing Vincent’s digital signature.

Every word Grace had spoken was true.

For five years, Vincent had been using my name as an umbrella to shield his own operation, building a separate criminal empire right under my nose while making me look like the monster responsible for atrocities I would have burned the city down to prevent.

My phone vibrated on the blotter.

Vincent.

I answered on the second ring.

"Dom," Vincent’s smooth, familiar voice came through the speaker. "I’m out in Oyster Bay. Thought I’d swing by the house tonight. Bring some of those cigars you like. We need to talk about the docks before the union vote on Thursday."

I looked toward the corner where Grace was sitting on the floor with Nora resting her head in her lap. Olivia and Sophie were drawing pictures with colored pencils Grace had pulled from her bag.

"Come on by, Vince," I said, my voice as flat and cold as winter iron. "The front door is unlocked."

"See you in twenty minutes, cousin."

I hung up.

I stood slowly, walked over to the mahogany cabinet by the fireplace, and unlocked the hidden compartment. I pulled out my Sig Sauer P226, checked the magazine, and slid it into the shoulder holster beneath my vest.

Grace looked up.

"You aren't going to kill him in the house," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because your daughters live here," she said, her gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made every man who had ever crossed me look like a schoolboy. "They spent fourteen months listening to ghosts in these hallways. If you turn this library into a slaughterhouse, they'll never sleep in this room again."

She was right.

I walked over to the desk, pulled my keys from my pocket, and tossed them onto the blotter.

"Take the girls through the tunnel," I said.

Grace paused. "The tunnel?"

"There's an exit leading down to the boathouse built by the rum-runners who owned this place in the twenties," I explained. "Take them to the car by the lower dock. Drive to the safe house in Southampton. The address is on the back of the business card in my glove box."