The sun had barely begun to carve its pale, gray light through the smog of the inner-city districts when I stepped out of the heavy iron gates of the Hayes estate.

The secure quarters assigned to me in the West Wing were larger than my entire apartment back in the city. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a private marble bathroom, and a tall window overlooking the secure rose gardens framed a life I had only ever seen in movies.

Yet, I couldn't sleep.

By midnight, the silence of the mansion felt oppressive. I slipped out of my room, wearing a simple oversized cotton shirt and pajama pants provided by the estate staff, and crept down the dimly lit hallway toward the main study.

The door was unlocked.

I pushed it open gently. The fire in the hearth was burning low, casting long, dancing shadows across the mahogany shelves. The leather sofa where Victor had collapsed two nights ago was spotless, the bloodstains scrubbed away completely.

“I wondered how long it would take you to wander out of your cage,” a voice murmured from the shadows near the desk.

I jumped, gasping as I spun around.

Victor was sitting in his high-backed leather chair, a glass of amber bourbon in his hand. The dim firelight caught the sharp angles of his jawline and the dark, fathomless depths of his eyes.

“I couldn't sleep,” I admitted softly, stepping further into the room. “My brain won't shut off.”

“Neither will mine,” Victor replied, taking a slow sip from his glass. He gestured toward the empty leather armchair across from his desk. “Sit.”

I hesitated, then walked over and sat down, pulling my knees up slightly toward my chest. “You said Liam was set up. You said someone used his gambling debt to infiltrate the estate.”

“I did,” Victor said, setting his glass down on the wood. He slid a thick manila folder across the desk toward me. “Open it.”

I reached out and flipped open the cover. Inside were financial printouts, bank wire receipts, and grainy surveillance photographs.

“Recognize anyone?” Victor asked.

I scanned the photos. Most were pictures of unfamiliar men in suits meeting in dark parking lots. But on the third page, my breath caught.

“Mrs. Daley?” I whispered, staring at a photograph of our head housekeeper shaking hands with a tall, silver-haired man outside a downtown restaurant.

“Mrs. Daley has worked for my family for twenty years,” Victor said, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register. “She knew the security codes. She knew the layout of the West Wing. And she was the one who signed off on your extra hours, deliberately keeping you in the building past midnight on the exact night the hit squad planned to move in.”

“She tried to get me killed,” I whispered, the horror of it settling deep into my bones.

“She tried to create a distraction,” Victor corrected. “An unlocked door, a misplaced maid, a chaotic scene to cover an assassin’s entry. You just happened to be tougher—and smarter—than she anticipated.”

I looked up from the folder, my eyes stinging with sudden, hot tears. “Why? Why would she betray you after twenty years?”

“Loyalty is a fragile thing, Emily, when measured against the weight of a dying empire,” Victor said quietly. He stood up from his desk and walked slowly around to the front, leaning against the edge of wood just inches from where I sat. “My father built this syndicate on iron rules. But over the years, rivals grew ambitious. They want the real estate holdings. They want the shipping lanes. And they figured the easiest way to break me was from the inside.”

He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against my cheek, wiping away a stray tear I hadn't realized had fallen.

I froze. The touch was so tender, so completely at odds with the violent world he inhabited, that my entire body went rigid.

“You’re crying,” Victor murmured, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.

“I’m not crying because I’m scared,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I looked up into his dark, searching eyes. “I’m crying because... because I don't belong in this world, Victor. I’m just a girl who cleans floors. I don't know how to survive a war.”