The sleet did not just fall against the tall, leaded windows of the Rourke estate; it struck with a rhythmic, impatient fury, as if the Chicago winter were trying to claw its way inside and warm its freezing hands by the marble fireplaces.

Friday morning arrived with no sun, only a dense, yellow-grey shroud that smothered the Chicago riverfront. The radiators in the estate hissed a steady, rhythmic complaint, but the chill in my bones had nothing to do with the weather.

At 9:00 AM sharp, Mrs. Alvarez intercepted me by the scullery counter.

"Tray for the master's study," she snapped, handing me a heavy silver platter holding a silver pot of black coffee, a bone-china cup, and a small silver dish of sugar cubes. "Mr. Pierce is already in there with him. Don't dawdle, Martha. They're discussing port security budgets, and when Nolan gets in that mood, he bites the head off anyone who breathes too loud."

My hands didn't shake as I lifted the tray. Fear has a strange way of focusing the mind, turning every muscle into taut wire.

I walked down the long, limestone-flagged corridor, my soft-soled cleaning shoes making no sound against the flagstones. As I neared the heavy mahogany doors of the library, I heard voices murmuring inside.

"...the Rotterdam shipment cleared customs at midnight," Nolan Pierce’s smooth voice was saying. "No hiccups. Everything is routed through the secondary manifest just like we discussed."

"And the paperwork?" Gabriel’s voice rumbled in response—calm, measured, lethal.

"Filed and locked," Nolan laughed, a short, oily sound. "Nobody looks at those files unless they're looking to retire early. Just like old Thomas Fontaine. Remember him? Poor bastard thought he could play hero with warehouse safety codes until his brakes gave out on the Kennedy."

My hand froze inches from the heavy brass doorknob. The sheer arrogance of it—bragging about murder inside the very house the dead man's wife cleaned every day.

I took a breath, pushed the door open with my knee, and stepped into the room.

The two men were standing by the mahogany desk. Gabriel was leaning against the edge, his arms crossed over his chest, his face an impassive mask of granite. Nolan Pierce stood opposite him, adjusting his gold Rolex watch, a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his pale face.

As I entered, Nolan’s eyes flicked toward me, his expression shifting instantly into cold annoyance.

"Watch the coffee, Martha," Nolan barked, his left shoe giving off that familiar, sickening squeak-click as he shifted his weight. "Some of us are trying to conduct actual business here."

I walked steadily toward the desk, keeping my eyes fixed on the silver tray. I set it down precisely in the center of the blotter, right beside a stack of shipping invoices.

"Thank you, Martha," Gabriel said. His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second—a dark, silent signal.

As I reached out to pour the coffee into the bone-china cup, my hand wobbled just enough to spill a few dark drops onto the edge of the stack of invoices—right over Nolan Pierce’s signature.

"Damn it, woman!" Nolan snapped, slapping his hand against the desk. "Are you blind? That's an original manifest!"

"I am so sorry, Mr. Pierce," I said, my voice trembling with practiced servility as I grabbed a linen napkin and began dabbing at the dark stain. "Let me just—"

"Get out," Nolan snarled, shoving my shoulder back hard enough to send me stumbling against the edge of a leather armchair. "Get out of the damn room before I have Alvarez dock your week's pay."

I didn't argue. I grabbed the empty tray, cast one last downward glance at Gabriel—whose jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin—and turned toward the door.