The master suite of the Moretti mansion smelled of cedar, expensive cologne, and a silence that felt heavier than lead.

Back at the Manhattan mansion, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Celeste sat on the velvet sofa in the drawing-room, her fingers nervously tapping against her knee as she watched Lucien pace back and forth across the Persian rug. The house was too quiet. The domestic staff moved like ghosts, their faces stony and averted whenever they passed through the room. Rosa, the head housekeeper, had already handed in her resignation letter that morning, citing "personal reasons" and walking out without looking back.

"Lucien, you're driving me crazy with all that pacing," Celeste complained, her voice carrying a sharp, defensive edge. "Can't you just call your lawyers? Get a court order to force her to sign whatever papers you need?"

Lucien stopped pacing. He turned slowly and looked at Celeste.

For the first time since she had moved into the house, he really looked at her—not as a trophy, not as a symbol of his virility or a traditional bloodline, but as the catalyst that had blown his entire life to pieces.

"Court orders?" Lucien repeated, his voice dangerously flat. "You think a court order is going to fix this, Celeste? My entire operating cash flow is frozen. Federal investigators are already subpoenaing our secondary shell accounts. If Elena doesn't authorize those transfers by tomorrow morning, my own lieutenants are going to put a bullet in my head."

Celeste’s face paled. "You're exaggerating. You're Lucien Moretti! People don't just... they don't cross you."

"They do when you give them a reason," Lucien growled, his phone buzzing violently in his pocket.

He pulled it out. An unknown number.

He swiped to answer, bringing the phone to his ear. "Talk."

"Mr. Moretti," a smooth, unfamiliar voice echoed through the receiver. It wasn't one of his captains. It was clean, precise, and entirely devoid of fear. "My name is Agent Miller with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re currently executing a search warrant on your primary commercial holdings in Brooklyn and Queens."

Lucien’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. "On what grounds?"

"Extensive financial irregularities, interstate racketeering, and unauthorized asset concealment," Miller replied calmly. "We have complete, itemized ledgers detailing every transaction your organization has made over the last decade. Every bribe, every shell company, every offshore account."

Lucien froze. "That's impossible. Those ledgers were encrypted."

"They were," Miller agreed smoothly. "Until they were voluntarily handed over to our office this morning by a cooperating primary stakeholder holding full administrative decryption keys."

The phone slipped from Lucien’s fingers, clattering loudly against the marble floor.

Celeste jumped up from the sofa. "Lucien? Who was that? What's happening?"

Lucien didn't answer. He stared blankly at the wall, the terrible, crushing weight of reality finally settling onto his shoulders.