They told Dante Cavallaro that Sophie Miller had stolen one hundred thousand dollars from his private safe and disappeared with the one ledger capable of destroying his empire.

The Cavallaro shipping docks on the Chicago River were a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and freezing wind blowing off Lake Michigan. At this hour, the massive yard was usually deserted except for the security patrols.

Dante's black Maybach rolled through the gates without stopping. The guards didn't even raise the barrier; they saw the plates and scrambled out of the way.

Rocco parked near Warehouse 7, where a single halogen light illuminated a loading bay.

“Stay in the car,” Dante said, stepping out into the biting wind.

His coat billowed around him as he walked across the wet asphalt. His boots made no sound against the concrete. Every instinct he possessed—the instincts that had kept him alive through three assassination attempts and two syndicate wars—screamed that he was walking into a trap.

He didn't care.

He pushed open the heavy steel door of Warehouse 7.

Inside, crates of smuggled electronics and luxury goods stacked ceiling-high cast long, skeletal shadows across the floor. In the center of the bay stood Marco.

He wasn't checking manifests.

He was standing over an open suitcase filled with bundled stacks of hundred-dollar bills—and a laptop screen glowing in the dark, displaying a wire transfer confirmation to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.

Marco turned around suddenly at the sound of the door creaking.

For a second, panic flashed across his smooth, carefully manicured face. Then it disappeared, replaced by a cold, calculating smile.

“Dante,” Marco said smoothly, slipping his hands into his slacks. “I thought you'd be at the penthouse keeping watch over your little pet.”

Dante stopped ten feet away. His hands were loose at his sides, fingers hovering inches from his holster.

“You left her in the garbage, Marco.”

Marco tilted his head, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Six months ago, you brought me the ledger,” Dante said, his voice dangerously low. “You told me Sophie cleaned out the safe and ran. You showed me the transfer logs.”

Marco let out a soft chuckle. “And you believed it. Because you wanted to. A billionaire don't like admitting when a lowly maid gets under his skin, does he? You were relieved when she disappeared. It saved you from yourself.”

Dante took a step forward. “She had the mark of Silas Vane burned into her arm.”

Marco's smile faltered just a fraction. “Vane has been expanding his territory. Everyone knows that.”

“Vane doesn't brand maids, Marco. He brands intelligence assets. He brands people who steal from syndicates and try to play both sides.” Dante's eyes locked onto the open suitcase of cash. “Or people who sell syndicate secrets to rival families and need a scapegoat.”

Marco's expression stiffened. The mask of the loyal servant slipped away, revealing the ambitious, greedy traitor hidden.

“You're right about one thing, Dante,” Marco spat, his voice rising. “Someone sold your secrets. Someone gave Vane the blueprints to your distribution hubs. Someone emptied your private safe six months ago.”

Marco pulled a silenced Beretta from his waistband and leveled it straight at Dante's chest.

“And that someone is standing right here. Only, when Vane's men grabbed Sophie to interrogate her, they realized she didn't know anything about the syndicate operations. She was just a maid who sang while she dusted your books. But Vane wanted to send a message. He wanted you broken.”