The black Maybach glided through the neon-drenched arteries of the lower district, its reinforced tires carving through the rain-slicked asphalt with a low, heavy hiss.

The sun rose over the Costa estate not with light, but with a heavy, bruised-purple gloom that hung low over the pine trees. Rain continued to fall in a steady, monotonous drone, drumming against the slate tiles of the roof.

Nora hadn't slept. She had spent the remainder of the night sitting by the window of the study, watching the guards in black raincoats move through the gardens below with heavy, silent precision. They moved like wolves—disciplined, lethal, and entirely obedient to the man sitting behind the mahogany desk.

By 8:00 AM, the quiet of the house was shattered by the arrival of three men wearing dark, tailored suits and carrying heavy steel briefcases. They were introduced briefly as Lorenzo’s legal and financial lieutenants—men who didn't deal in guns, but in shell companies, foreclosure notices, and municipal wiretaps.

Lorenzo stood at the head of a massive conference table in the ground-floor strategy room, a mug of black coffee in his hand. Wall-mounted monitors displayed street maps of the South Side, property records, and live security feeds from various points across the city.

Nora sat at the far end of the table, wearing a dark wool sweater that Dr. Wyatt had arranged to be delivered, along with a pair of simple leather boots. Her face was still badly bruised, but the cold, sharp focus in her eyes had fully crystallized.

“Frank Bertonelli operates out of three primary locations,” Lorenzo said, pointing a silver pointer at a high-resolution aerial photograph of an auto body shop on 12th Street. “The repair shop is his front. The basement handles the illegal gambling and loan-sharking records. His brother, Marco, runs the enforcement side out of a meatpacking plant four blocks east.”

“Frank’s total liquid assets are sitting around two million,” one of the financial lieutenants spoke up, opening his briefcase to reveal stacks of audited bank summaries. “Most of it is laundered through small construction contracts and cash-heavy bars in the dock district. But he’s overextended. He borrowed eight hundred thousand from the Moretti family in Chicago last month to buy into a shipping container shipment that got seized by customs.”

“Which is why he’s desperate for Greg’s sixty thousand,” Lorenzo murmured, a dark glint in his eye. “Frank is drowning. He’s striking out at small debtors because he can't pay his own masters.”

Lorenzo turned to look directly at Nora.

“You are an accountant, Miss Hayes,” he said smoothly. “When you look at Frank’s setup, what do you see?”

Nora blinked, taken aback by the sudden question. The legal lieutenants turned to stare at her, their expressions a mix of curiosity and subtle condescension.

She swallowed down her hesitation, leaned forward, and looked closely at the financial summaries spread across the digital monitor. Her eyes, trained by years of hunting for discrepancies in corporate logistics ledgers, scanned the rows of numbers with automatic, practiced speed.

“I see a structural flaw,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been all night.

Lorenzo raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Frank is laundering his loan-sharking interest through the auto body shop’s parts inventory,” Nora said, pointing to a column of figures. “Look at the markup on imported steel paneling. It’s inflated by four hundred percent compared to market value. He’s claiming cash sales for parts that were never delivered, then using those receipts to balance the books for his loan payments to Chicago.”

She looked up, fixing Lorenzo with a direct stare.

“He’s using a single commercial bank account in the city center to clear those transactions before wiring the funds to the Moretti family. If that central account is frozen or flagged for tax fraud, his entire laundering cycle collapses. He won't just be unable to collect from people like Greg—he won't be able to pay Chicago.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. The three lieutenants looked at Nora with a sudden, sharp recalculation in their eyes.

Lorenzo set his coffee mug down on the table with a soft, deliberate click. A slow, genuine look of approval spread across his hard features.

“Surgical,” Lorenzo murmured. “You see the numbers beneath the violence.”

“I see where people hide when they’re lying,” Nora replied flatly. “It’s the same logic whether it’s a logistics company or a mob boss.”

“Vincent,” Lorenzo said, turning to his underboss, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his massive chest. “Contact our contacts at the Treasury Department. Give them the account numbers Miss Hayes just identified. Tell them to execute an emergency freeze on the auto shop’s commercial assets based on an anonymous tip regarding foreign wire fraud.”

“And what about Frank?” Vincent asked.

“Frank will panic,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into that dark, terrifying register. “When his money freezes and Chicago calls demanding their eight hundred thousand, he will look for an immediate scapegoat. He will assume Greg or Nora snitched to the feds.”