At 1:47 in the morning, I caught my housekeeper’s six-year-old daughter secretly cleaning my forbidden office with her baby sister tied to her back because she believed one unfinished room would cost her family their home. But before I could discover why her mother had disappeared, the little girl pointed at my bookcase and asked why a woman was crying inside a room no outsider knew existed.

I carried Grace down to the private medical suite on the second floor—the room where I had noticed the faint light earlier.

My private physician, Dr. Samuel Vance, arrived within twenty minutes through the rear entrance. He immediately set up an IV drip for severe dehydration, treated the friction burns on Grace's wrists, and administered a mild sedative to help her rest.

Mia sat in the corner of the leather armchair, holding a warm cup of sweet milk that my chef had rushed upstairs. Lily lay asleep in a portable crib beside her mother's bed.

I sat across from Mia, dropping my heavy coat onto the foot of the bed.

"Mia," I said gently, lowering my voice so I didn't startle her. "Who told you that you would lose your home if the study wasn't cleaned?"

Mia looked down at her small shoes, her fingers twisting the hem of her oversized sweater. "A man with a scar on his hand. He came to our apartment in the basement three nights ago. He told me Mama was working on a special project for you, but if the big office up top wasn't shiny every night at 1:00 AM, Mr. Duca would throw us into the street."

"A scar shaped like a crescent moon?" I asked quietly.

Mia nodded fast. "On his left knuckle. He looked scary. He had silver hair."

Victor.

My father’s younger brother had been banished from the Duca family syndicate ten years ago after I caught him embezzling funds and selling human trafficking routes through the port of South Boston. I had spared his life out of respect for my late father, stripping him of his territory and warning him never to step foot in Beacon Hill again.

He had returned. And he was hunting for the one thing my father had taken from him seventeen years ago: the Red Ledger.

Grace stirred on the bed, the IV fluids restoring some strength to her hollow cheeks. She turned her head toward me, her eyes filled with fear.

"Roman... I’m sorry," Grace whispered, tears leaking down her temples. "I tried to refuse. He grabbed me when I was bringing down the laundry on Tuesday night. He had a gun. He dragged me to your study... he knew where the release button was on the bookshelf."

"Why didn't he take the ledger himself?" I asked, stepping closer to her bed.

"Because the vault safe inside... it requires two keys," Grace rasped. "He thought I had your father's spare key hidden in my quarters. When I swore I didn't know anything about a key, he got furious. He shoved me inside the vault and sealed the wall, saying he'd starve me until I remembered where it was."

I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, antique brass key attached to a dark leather cord. My father had given it to me on his deathbed.

"He didn't just want the money, did he?" I asked Grace.

Grace swallowed hard, looking at her two sleeping daughters. "He said... he said he was going to burn your empire to the ground, Roman. He said the ledger has the names of every judge, police chief, and politician your family bought over thirty years. If he releases it to the federal prosecutor, you go to prison for life... and he inherits everything."

I looked at Grace—a woman who had worked quietly in my home for eight years, who cooked my meals, who folded my clothes, who had suffered two days of psychological torture in a dark tomb just to protect my legacy and her children.

"He made a fatal mistake," I said, my voice dropping into an absolute, icy whisper. "He touched my home. And he terrified your daughters."

Grace reached out, her fingers trembling as she grabbed my hand. "Roman, he has men watching the house. He’s coming back tonight at 3:00 AM to check if I broke."

I checked my watch.