Everyone in the hall scoffed: “The Help Knows Nothing”...

By 3:00 AM, Blackwood House was a fortress wrapped in absolute silence.

Inside the private study on the third floor, Marcus sat behind his massive mahogany desk, illuminated only by the green glow of multiple computer monitors. Across from him sat Vance, his chief of security, and two digital forensic analysts brought in from a private intelligence firm in Cambridge.

“We decrypted the files on Mrs. Bellamy’s burner phone, boss,” Vance reported, placing a printed transcript on the desk. “She didn't act alone in the kitchen. She had an accomplice among the catering staff—a temporary line cook named Leo Vance, no relation to the senator, but a known associate of Arthur Sterling’s union fixers.”

Marcus scanned the transcript, his eyes narrowing.

“Just drop a few drops in the boy’s juice when the lights dim for the string quartet,” the text message from Leo read. “Nobody looks at the help. Once the heir is gone, Marcus will lose his mind, the board will oust him, and Vanguard takes over the port contracts.”

“And where is Leo now?” Marcus asked, his voice dead calm.

“ vanished an hour before the gala ended,” Vance said grimly. “We traced his burner phone signal to an industrial warehouse near the Blackwood container terminal at South Boston Harbor. He’s meeting someone to collect his final payout.”

Marcus stood up slowly, sliding a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol into the custom leather holster beneath his suit jacket.

“Get the tactical response team ready,” Marcus ordered. “We’re going to the docks.”

“Boss,” Vance hesitated. “Arthur Sterling is a heavy hitter. If we raid his facility without federal warrants, it could start an open corporate war.”

“Let it burn,” Marcus said coldly. “Someone tried to murder my son. There are no corporate rules left.”

As Marcus walked out into the private hallway toward the private elevator, a soft rustle from the shadows made him stop.

Maya stood near the arched window at the end of the corridor, wearing a heavy wool sweater over her pajamas. She had been unable to sleep.

“You’re going after them,” she said quietly, stepping into the dim light.

“Yes,” Marcus said. “Stay here. Vance has left a dozen armed guards around this wing—”

“No,” Maya interrupted, her chin lifting with an undeniable spark of defiance. “I’m not staying locked in a room while the people who tried to kill a ten-year-old boy walk free. I know the layout of the South Boston container terminal better than your tactical team. My uncle used to work warehouse dock four before he got sick. I know every catwalk, every blind spot, and every security bypass.”

Marcus stared at her, studying the fierce, unbreakable resolve shining in her dark eyes. For the first time since his wife died, he didn't see a helpless victim or a hired employee. He saw an equal.

“If you come,” Marcus said slowly, stepping closer, “you stay behind me. Every second. Do you understand?”