The little pink suitcase appeared before the child did. Its plastic wheels clattered across the polished hardwood outside Damon Reyes’s conference room,

By sunrise, the Arizona estate looked as peaceful as it always did. The desert sun crested the eastern mountains, painting the stucco walls of the main house in warm shades of gold and copper, while the koi in the rear pond broke the surface in lazy, rhythmic circles.

Inside the private study, however, the past twenty years were being systematically dismantled.

Marcus stood by the heavy oak desk, dropping a stack of incriminating financial ledgers into a metal burn barrel that had been brought up from the basement.

“Victor Lane is singing like a canary to the federal prosecutor,” Marcus reported, watching the first ledger catch fire. “Turns out thirty years of embezzlement and corporate espionage will make even an old advisor eager for a plea deal. The Romano accounts in Nevada have been frozen.”

Damon sat behind his desk, holding a cup of black coffee that Margaret had brought up twenty minutes earlier. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes betraying a night without sleep, but there was a strange, profound lightness in his posture.

“And Victor?” Damon asked.

“Federal penitentiary in Florence,” Marcus said. “Maximum security. He won't be advising anyone anytime soon.”

“Good.”

Marcus hesitated for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Boss... there’s something else. The west residence has been thoroughly swept. We found a secondary transmitter hidden in the smoke detector. The Romanos had been listening in for months.”

“Tear it out,” Damon said calmly. “And update the security protocols for the entire staff wing. From now on, nobody enters the domestic quarters without my personal authorization.”

Marcus smiled faintly. “Will do, boss. By the way... breakfast is being served in the solarium. Selena insisted on making pancakes.”