The room exploded into movement. Four of my enforcers, including Frank Miller, instinctively unholstered their sidearms as Emily reached her bare hand directly toward Noah’s chest.

By 5:00 AM, the rain storm had passed, leaving a crisp, clear twilight glow over the Boston Harbor.

At Pier 42—the fortress-like headquarters of the Moretti Shipping Company—Salvatore Moretti sat in his lavish second-floor office, smoking a Cuban cigar, waiting for his son's call confirming my estate had fallen into chaos.

Instead, the double mahogany doors of his office were kicked off their hinges with a thunderous CRASH.

Eighteen of my armed enforcers flooded the room, securing every corner before Salvatore could even reach for his desk drawer.

I walked into the room, wearing a tailored dark suit, holding a silver briefcase. Beside me walked Emily Parker.

Salvatore dropped his cigar, his face turning gray as he saw me walking, completely unharmed. "Carter...? How... how are you alive?"

"You sent a coward's poison to kill a six-month-old child, Salvatore," I said quietly, setting the briefcase down on his desk. "That was your fatal mistake."

I opened the briefcase. Inside lay a digital tablet streaming a live feed of federal agents seizing his offshore bank accounts, along with a signed confession from Dr. Aris Vance and his son, Anthony, currently bound and gagged in the back of my transport van.

Salvatore’s hands began to shake violently. "Michael... listen to me. We can make a deal. I'll give you sixty percent of the docks! I'll give you—"

"I don't want your docks, Salvatore," I said, stepping aside as Emily walked forward, dropping her father's old medical examiner badge onto the desk in front of him.

Salvatore looked at the badge, his eyes widening in pure horror. "Richard Parker's daughter..."

"The FBI is outside, Salvatore," Emily said, her voice smooth, calm, and filled with ultimate victory. "And unlike my father... you won't get a chance to arrange an accident. You're going to die in a federal prison cell."

Outside, the blare of federal law enforcement sirens filled the morning air as federal marshals poured onto the pier.

Salvatore collapsed into his leather chair, a broken, defeated old man.