The wind howling off Lake Michigan cut through my heavy wool coat like a dull blade, carrying the bitter, metallic scent of snow and industrial exhaust.

The estate in Evanston sat fifty yards back from the rocky shore of Lake Michigan, hidden behind a thick wall of white pine trees and a heavy iron gate that hadn't been opened in seven years.

It was my personal property—bought under a blind corporate trust when I turned twenty-five, completely disconnected from the Moretti syndicate’s books. Not even Lorenzo knew the address.

I backed the sedan into the heated garage, shutting the heavy wooden doors before helping Gabe out of the passenger seat. His joints were stiff from the cold, his breath rattling in his chest, but the heat of the house made his pale face flush with color.

Beatrice followed closely behind, clutching her tote bag, her eyes wide as she looked at the marble floors, the warm leather furniture, and the grand stone fireplace dominating the living room.

"Mrs. Gable," I called out as we entered the kitchen.

My old nanny—a woman of sixty-five who had taken care of me after my mother passed, and whom I had retired to this property four years ago—stepped out of the pantry holding a tray of clean towels. She stopped dead when she saw the frail, scarred old man leaning heavily on my arm.

The tray slipped from her hands, clattering against the tile floor.

"Mother of God..." Mrs. Gable gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Gabe...?"

"Hello, Mary," Gabe rasped, offering her a tired, crooked smile. "I'm a bit late for dinner."

Within twenty minutes, Mrs. Gable had built a roaring fire in the stone hearth, brought out thick wool blankets, and prepared two large bowls of beef stew and fresh bread.

Gabe sat near the fire, eating slowly, his color returning as the heat of the room settled into his old bones. Beatrice sat beside him on a plush sofa, holding a steaming mug of tea with both hands, staring into the flames as if she still couldn't believe she was no longer in the dark cellar in Pilsen.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the dark, stormy lake, holding my phone in my gloved hand.

The screen lit up with three missed calls from Lorenzo Vale.

I pulled up the encrypted messaging app connected to my private network and dialed a number I hadn't used in two years—a direct line to Marcus Vance, an independent forensic accountant who worked exclusively for wealthy men who wanted to destroy their partners without calling the police.

"Michael," Marcus’s smooth, educated voice answered on the second ring. "It's late. What's burning?"

"I have a ledger, Marcus," I said, my voice dead level. "And thirty million dollars in offshore transfers that need to be traced back to Julian Rossi's personal accounts within forty-eight hours."

There was a brief pause on the line, followed by the soft rustle of paper. "Julian Rossi? If you pull on that thread, Michael, half the city council and three precinct captains are going to unravel with him."

"Let them burn," I replied softly. "I'll have the documents delivered to your office by courier in an hour. I want every account number, every shell company, and every judge on his payroll identified by Thursday morning."

"Consider it done," Marcus said, hanging up the line.

I turned back to the room.

Beatrice was standing near the fireplace, watching me with a mix of awe and lingering apprehension. She had pulled off her ragged coat, revealing a simple grey sweater underneath. Without the dirt and fear covering her, she was striking—possessing sharp, intelligent brown eyes, a strong jawline, and a quiet, unshakeable dignity that no amount of poverty had managed to crush.

I walked over to the hearth, standing beside her.

"Your father," I said quietly, looking down at her. "Who was he, Beatrice?"

She swallowed hard, looking into the fire. "His name was Thomas Gallagher. He was a dock worker at Pier 42. Twelve years ago, he refused to sign a false manifest for a shipping container full of unregistered firearms coming in from Montreal."

My chest tightened. I remembered that shipment. It was the night Gabe was supposedly killed.

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"He disappeared three days later," Beatrice whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. "Julian Rossi told the union that my father took a bribe and fled to Mexico. They blacklisted our family. My mother died two years later from cancer because we couldn't afford her medication. I spent twelve years trying to find out why my father died... until I found Gabe in that alley."

She looked up at me, her eyes fierce and clear. "Your family destroyed mine, Mr. Moretti. But Gabe told me you didn't know. He told me you were just a boy when they put that crown on your head."