The silence inside the Moretti mansion was heavy, cold, and total. Built from imported Italian limestone and guarded by high iron gates overlooking Long Island Sound, the estate had not known real warmth in three years.

Julian sat down across from Lucas, taking a slow sip of his drink. He looked entirely relaxed, the picture of a loyal second-in-command concerned for his leader’s health.

"The sweep of the perimeter is done," Julian reported calmly. "No sign of forced entry. I’m thinking someone compromised the HVAC system or tainted your personal carafe of water. I’ve already sent the water samples to our private lab."

Sending them to your lab to be destroyed, Lucas thought, keeping his expression completely unreadable.

"Good work, Julian," Lucas said aloud. "What about the shipping routes for next month? The Panama shipment?"

Julian paused, a flicker of surprise passing through his eyes before he masked it. "Panama? Lucas, you almost died two hours ago. You should be resting. Let me handle the Panama logistics. In fact, maybe it’s time you took a step back for a few months. Go to the island house. Recover. I can run the day-to-day operations."

It was a power grab, subtle but undeniable.

"No," Lucas said firmly. "I want to stay close. In fact, I’m thinking of making some major structural changes to the company."

Julian’s eyes hardened slightly. "Changes? What kind of changes?"

"I’m liquidating the real estate portfolio in Manhattan," Lucas lied smoothly. "Shifting forty percent of our liquid capital into a private trust. I want to make sure if anything ever happens to me, the money goes where I want it to go."

"And where is that?" Julian asked, his voice tighter now.

"To a foundation in Daniel and Isabella's name," Lucas said, staring directly into Julian’s eyes. "I don't want the money touching the street ever again."

Julian stood up abruptly, setting his glass down on the desk with a sharp clink.

"You're talking like a crazy man, Lucas," Julian said, dropping the friendly tone. "We built this empire together! You can't just siphon off hundreds of millions of dollars into charity because you had an asthma attack!"

"It wasn't an asthma attack, Julian," Lucas said softly. "And it's my money."

Julian stared at him for three long seconds, the silence between them razor-sharp. Then, Julian let out a short, cold laugh.

"Get some sleep, Lucas," Julian said quietly, turning toward the door. "You’re not thinking clearly."

As soon as Julian left the room, Lucas pulled out his burner phone. A secure text message arrived from Marcus:

Boss, we tapped Julian’s secondary line. He just made a satellite call to a burner number in Zurich. Transcript attached.

Lucas opened the encrypted file and read the translated text:

JULIAN: The target survived. A kid had a rescue inhaler on her. The poison didn't finish the job.

UNKNOWN: That’s sloppy, Vance. The board wants this finalized before the quarterly transfer.

JULIAN: It will be done by morning. Clear the transport team. We do it loud if we have to.

Lucas closed the phone.

The conspiracy was bigger than Julian. Julian was working with "the board"—the corrupt offshore investors who had been trying to force the Moretti family into turning their shipping ports into a major international drug funnel. Lucas had refused them years ago.

Isabella and Daniel hadn't just been collateral damage. They had been murdered to break Lucas's spirit—to make him weak, reckless, and easy to control.

And when Lucas refused to break, Julian had decided to eliminate him completely and take control of the family syndicate himself.

Lucas stood up and walked to the window. Dawn was beginning to break over the ocean, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple.

Julian planned to finish the job before morning.