The study at Ravenswood Hall smelled of woodsmoke, old leather, and a terror that had been fermenting for twenty years.

"Marcus! Julian!" Salvatore called out sharply to the two bodyguards standing at the door.

"Sir?" Marcus stepped forward, his hand instinctively dropping to the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

"Take Edmund to the holding rooms in the west wing. Lock him in. Nobody enters, nobody leaves until I get back."

"Salvatore, wait!" Edmund cried out, his aristocratic composure completely shattered as the guards seized his arms. "You don't understand what she is! She isn't the girl you remember! She’ll destroy everything!"

"You destroyed it twenty years ago, old man," Salvatore said coldly as the guards dragged his grandfather through the carved double doors.

Salvatore pulled his heavy wool coat back on, grabbing a tactical flashlight from the desk drawer. He looked down at Marina.

"Stay here with Mrs. Gable," he instructed gently.

"No," Marina said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "She said you'd need the second key. And I'm the only one who knows where she hid it."

Salvatore looked at the twelve-year-old girl. The resemblance to Olivia was undeniable now—the same piercing green eyes, the same stubborn set of the jaw. He nodded once. "Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run straight to the main gate."

They left the study, cutting through the darkened corridors of Ravenswood Hall. The estate felt different now—less like a fortress of family pride and more like a mausoleum built over an unburied secret.

They stepped out through the side conservatory door into the pouring rain. The wind whipped cold water against their faces as they made their way down the muddy slope toward the edge of Lake Windermere, where the ancient stone boathouse sat half-submerged in the dark water.

The structure had been condemned for a decade, its wooden doors rotted and chained shut. But as Salvatore approached with the flashlight beam cutting through the rain, he saw the heavy iron padlock had been cleanly cut with bolt cutters.

The door swung inward with a low, wet groan.

"Olivia?" Salvatore called out, stepping into the damp darkness of the boathouse. The beam of his flashlight swept across rotted wooden hulls, rusted winches, and the dark, churning water beneath the slipway.

A shadow moved in the far corner.

"You brought the ledger, Salvatore," a low, smooth voice echoed off the wet stone walls.

A woman stepped into the light of the flashlight beam. She wore a heavy oilskin coat, her dark hair pulled back, her face worn by years of living in the shadows, but her eyes—those sharp, intelligent green eyes—belonged unmistakably to his sister.