The silence in Adrian Moretti’s private study was heavy, punctuated only by the distant, muted rumble of traffic crawling along the wet asphalt outside the grand estate.

Before Claire could answer—before she could formulate the lie or the defensive retort that was burning on the tip of her tongue—the kitchen door burst open.

Vance strode in, his face grim, clutching a secure encrypted tablet.

"Boss, you need to see this," Vince said, stopping short when he noticed Claire standing beside the island. He hesitated, shooting a suspicious glance in her direction.

"Speak," Adrian commanded, not breaking eye contact with Claire.

"The missing containers from the eastern syndicate," Vince reported, his voice tight. "We traced the manifest logs. They didn't vanish at the docks. Someone inside our own distribution network leaked the shipping codes to the Outfit. Specifically... Frankie Marcone's crew."

At the mention of Marcone’s name, the temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop twenty degrees.

Frankie Marcone was the rising, reckless young boss of the rival South Side faction—a man known for violence, unpredictability, and an aggressive ambition that threatened the fragile peace Chicago had maintained for a decade.

Adrian stood up slowly, towering over the counter. All traces of softness vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, lethal fury that was terrifying to behold.

"Marcone," Adrian murmured, testing the name on his tongue like poison. "He’s testing the boundaries."

"More than testing," Vince added. "His men left a message on one of the empty crates. A carved iron coin. They're meeting tonight at the warehouse on Clybourn Avenue to distribute the stolen tech."

Adrian straightened his jacket, adjusting his cuffs with absolute, terrifying precision. He turned his gaze back to Claire for a fraction of a second.

"Finish cleaning the kitchen, Claire," he said quietly. "Lock the doors when you're done. Don't open them for anyone until I return."

As Adrian and Vince marched out of the kitchen, the heavy oak doors swinging shut behind them, Claire gripped the edge of the marble counter so hard her knuckles turned white.

She knew what Marcone’s crew meant. She knew what happened when syndicates went to war.