the bartender fed the silent girl every night until her crime boss father walked in. but the child had chosen josie for a reason no one in boston could survive.

The mansion was quiet by 2:00 AM.

Josie couldn't sleep. The luxury of the guest room—the Egyptian cotton sheets, the roaring fireplace, the private balcony—felt completely foreign to a girl who was used to sleeping four hours a night on a lumpy mattress in Southie.

She stepped out into the carpeted hallway, pulled by a low, rhythmic sound coming from the lower level.

She followed the sound down a narrow stairwell behind the main kitchen, descending into the basement level of the estate. The air grew cooler, smelling of old concrete, damp stone, and tobacco smoke.

At the end of a long corridor lit by low-hanging bulbs, a heavy iron door stood slightly ajar.

Josie approached silently, her bare feet making no sound against the flagstone floor. She peeked through the narrow crack in the doorframe.

Inside was a dimly lit wine cellar converted into a high-tech war room. Monitors lined the walls, displaying live feeds of the estate’s perimeter, shipping docks in Charlestown, and financial ticker boards.

Constantine sat at a heavy mahogany desk in the center of the room. Beside him stood Viktor, holding a bloody leather strap.

Kneeling on the floor in front of the desk was Tate. His face was unrecognizable, swollen and bruised, but his eyes were wide with animal terror.

“I’m telling you the truth!” Tate sobbed, coughing blood onto the concrete. “The voice on the phone... he called himself 'The Architect'! He knew every trade route your ships take out of Massport! He knew you were planning to sign over the docks to the city council next month!”

Constantine leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands clasped beneath his chin.

“Julian Cross handles my dock concessions,” Constantine said quietly. “Did the voice ever mention Julian?”

“No!” Tate gasped. “But... but he mentioned a date! He said October 14th was the day the crown would fall!”

Constantine froze.

Josie saw his knuckles turn white.

October 14th was the day Elena Voss died.

“Viktor,” Constantine said softly, standing up from his chair. “Take him to the safehouse in New Hampshire. Lock him in the cellar. No phone, no light, no food until I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, Don Voss,” Viktor said, grabbing Tate by his collar and dragging him toward a side exit.

Constantine remained standing alone in the center of the room. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an old black-and-white photograph. He stared at it for a long moment, then set it down under the desk lamp.

Josie inadvertently shifted her weight, her arm brushing against a copper pipe running along the corridor wall.

A soft, metallic clink echoed down the hallway.

Instantly, Constantine’s gun was out of his holster, leveled directly at the door crack.