“Can you be my daughter for one day?”

That night, the manor was completely quiet.

At 2:00 AM, the hallway lights were dimmed to a low, amber glow. Outside, a bitter winter wind howled through the bare trees of Greenwich, driving heavy sleet against the high glass windows of the estate.

In his ground-floor bedroom adjacent to the library, Adrian lay in his wide bed.

He was not sleeping.

His steel-gray eyes were wide open, staring at the dark ceiling.

Beside his bed sat a small, secured satellite telephone—a device completely disconnected from the manor’s internal Wi-Fi networks and landlines, which were all managed by Marcus Vale’s security team.

Adrian picked up the phone with a steady hand. His fingers, which had been trembling for months, were locked in a tight, precise grip. The rage burning inside his veins seemed to have burned away the physical weakness, replacing it with a cold, desperate adrenaline.

He dialed an eleven-digit international number from memory.

The phone rang three times before a deep, gravelly voice answered in Italian.

"Speak."

"It’s Adrian," he said quietly.

Silence stretched across the line for two long seconds. The man on the other end was Matteo Rossi—the retired former consigliere of Adrian’s father, a eighty-year-old man who lived in total seclusion in a fortified villa in Palermo, Sicily. Matteo was the only man alive who owed no loyalty to the modern New York families and had loved Adrian like a grandson.

"Adrian," Matteo’s voice came low and cautious. "You have not called this line in three years. I was told you were dying."

"I am being poisoned, Matteo," Adrian said, his tone flat and icy. "By Marcus."

A heavy breath sounded over the speaker. Matteo did not sound surprised. In the ruthless world of the syndicate, ambition was a disease that rarely left survivors.

"Do you have proof?" Matteo asked.

"I have the medicine he gives me every night," Adrian said. "I need an independent lab test done immediately. Away from Dr. Vance. Vance is in on it."

"Vance owed three million dollars in gambling debts to a Cuban syndicate in Miami five years ago," Matteo said calmly, revealing information he had held in reserve for years. "The debts vanished suddenly two months after your car accident. I always wondered who paid them."

Adrian closed his eyes, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw ached. Marcus paid them.

"I need a crew, Matteo," Adrian whispered into the phone. "Men who aren't on the New York payroll. Men who don't report to Marcus. Tonight."

"They will be at your gates by five o'clock tomorrow morning," Matteo replied without hesitation. "Four of my best boys from Chicago. They are loyal to the old blood. What is your plan?"

"Marcus thinks I am weak," Adrian said, staring out the window into the dark sleet. "He thinks I will be dead in six months. I am going to let him believe he is about to inherit everything. And then I am going to tear him apart."

"And the car bomb three years ago?" Matteo asked softly.

Adrian’s grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned bone-white. "If he gave the order that killed Claire and Sophie... I will not shoot him, Matteo. Shooting is too fast."

He hung up the phone.

Four hours later, at 6:00 AM, the heavy wooden doors of the library were unlocked.

Marcus Vale walked into the room carrying his morning espresso and a tablet containing the daily financial briefs.

Adrian was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, wearing a dark velvet dressing gown. He looked exhausted, his skin pale and gaunt under the dim morning light.

"Good morning, Adrian," Marcus said smoothly, setting the espresso down on the desk. "You look tired. Did you sleep poorly?"

"The rain kept me awake," Adrian said, his voice sounding weak and raspy—a performance he executed with absolute, terrifying perfection. He held up his right hand, allowing it to tremble noticeably in the air. "The tremors are getting worse, Marcus. Vance was right. My body is failing."

Marcus looked down at the trembling hand, a flash of deep, cruel satisfaction dancing behind his eyes for a fraction of a second before he forced a look of solemn concern onto his face.

"I spoke with Dr. Vance yesterday, boss," Marcus said softly, sitting down in the leather chair across from the desk. "He suggested we increase the dosage of your nerve medication starting tonight. It might help manage the tremors."

"Yes," Adrian whispered, leaning his head back against the chair, looking helpless and broken. "Whatever Vance says. I trust you, Marcus. You have been the only constant in this house since... since I lost them."

Marcus smiled—a warm, reassuring smile that felt utterly repulsive to Adrian’s eyes.

"You don't need to worry about anything, Adrian," Marcus said, leaning forward and resting his hand on the armrest of Adrian’s wheelchair. "I am handling the captains. I am handling the accounts. When the time comes... everything will be secure."

"Thank you, brother," Adrian murmured, closing his eyes as if overcome by exhaustion.

"Rest now," Marcus said, standing up. "I have a meeting downtown with the port authority. I will be back by four o'clock."

Marcus turned and walked out of the library, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The second the sound of Marcus’s footsteps faded down the hallway, Adrian opened his eyes.

The trembling in his hand instantly stopped. His steel-gray eyes were cold, sharp, and lethal as polished blades.

He pushed his wheelchair over to the low side table near the door where Lily had touched the blue dust two days prior.

He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, carefully scraping a micro-sample of the blue residue from the underside of the porcelain dish into the vial, sealing it tightly.

At that moment, the door to the courtyard opened softly, and four tall men in heavy dark coats stepped into the manor through the side entrance. They were quiet, precise, and moved with the deadly efficiency of seasoned soldiers.

The lead man—a broad-shouldered Italian-American with a scar running across his left cheek—stepped into the library and raised two fingers to his forehead in a crisp gesture of respect.

"Mr. Moretti," the man said in a low, rough voice. "Matteo sent us. I’m Frank."

Adrian handed Frank the small glass vial.

"Take this to the private toxicology lab on 42nd Street," Adrian ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I want a full chemical breakdown of the compound in two hours. And Frank?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Find out where Marcus Vale was on the morning of October 8th, three years ago. Check his private offshore accounts in Grand Cayman. I want every transfer, every wire, every phone record he made forty-eight hours before the bomb went off."

Frank took the vial and nodded grimly. "Consider it done."

As Frank and his men slipped silently back out into the cold morning rain, Adrian turned his wheelchair toward the easel in the corner of the room.

Sitting on the easel was a new drawing Lily had made the day before.

It was a picture of a large man sitting in a wheelchair, holding hands with a tiny girl holding a rabbit. Above them, in messy, childish pink crayon, Lily had drawn three bright red cherries.

Adrian reached out his hand, his thumb gently tracing the crayon lines.

"I promised her one day without work," Adrian whispered to the empty room, his voice breaking with ancient grief. "And you took her from me."