Blood had dried almost black along the hem of my torn beige coat, one shoe was gone, and my swollen face still burned where they had hit me—but none of that mattered because the six-month-old baby sleeping against my chest was alive.

Three days passed inside Kane Manor.

My physical recovery was surprisingly fast, thanks to Dr. Aris's constant care and the nourishing meals prepared by Gabriel's private chef. By the fourth morning, I was able to walk around the vast estate without a cane, though my ankle was still wrapped in a light support bandage.

Eli had attached himself to me completely. Whenever I was in the room, he refused to let anyone else hold him, squirming in Gabriel's or Mason's arms until I picked him up. The tragic loss of his parents eleven months ago had left a hollow void in his little life, and somehow, my presence had become his anchor.

But while my body was healing, my mind remained restless.

I couldn't just sit in opulent luxury and read books while Gabriel fought an unseen war outside the gates. I was an accountant—my brain worked on logic, patterns, and anomalies.

On Thursday afternoon, I walked into Gabriel's ground-floor study without knocking.

The room was vast, lined with dark oak paneling and heavy leather furniture. Gabriel was sitting behind a massive desk covered in three computer monitors, flanked by Mason and two senior lieutenants. They all froze as I walked in, wearing a dark blue sweater and black trousers, carrying a heavy tablet.

"Claire," Gabriel said, standing up instantly. "You should be resting."

"I've rested for seventy-two hours, Gabriel," I said, stepping past Mason and setting my tablet directly onto Gabriel's desk. "And while your security team has been busy cracking heads in Hammond, you missed something critical."

Mason frowned. "Missed what, Miss Bennett? We swept the entire Moretti network."

"You swept Victor Moretti's men," I replied, opening a spreadsheet on the screen. "But Victor Moretti didn't act alone. He didn't have the capital to fund an operation of that size. Look at these wire transfers."

Gabriel leaned over the desk, his sharp eyes scanning the rows of numbers I had highlighted in bright red.

"Three weeks ago," I explained, tapping the screen, "a shell company registered in Delaware called 'Apex Logistics' purchased forty heavy transport vehicles and leased the warehouse near Hammond where Eli and I were taken. Apex Logistics is funded through an offshore account in Grand Cayman."

"We traced that account," Mason offered. "It pointed straight back to Moretti."

"No," I corrected firmly, looking Mason dead in the eye. "It pointed to an account managed by Moretti’s bank. But if you analyze the transaction timestamps and cross-reference them with clearinghouse fees, the original money didn't come from Chicago at all."

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. "Where did it come from?"

"From Harrison Holdings," I said softly.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the room.

Mason gasped. "Marcus Harrison? Your lead equity partner?"

Marcus Harrison was one of Chicago’s most respected legitimate billionaires—a hedge fund titan who sat on the boards of major museums, hospitals, and charities. He had been Gabriel’s primary corporate ally for five years, providing a pristine, legitimate front for Kane Enterprises' massive real estate ventures.

"Harrison has been bleeding liquidity for six months," I said, swiping to a new screen showing audited balance sheets I had pulled from public tax registries and internal company ledgers. "His European investments failed in November. He needed eighty million dollars to avoid a federal audit. He didn't just want Eli kidnapped to hurt you, Gabriel... he wanted to force you into a desperate fire-sale of your port terminals so he could buy them for pennies on the dollar and save his own empire."

Gabriel stared at the numbers on the screen. The cold, calculating intellect that made him a legendary businessman processed the data in seconds. He didn't doubt my work for a single frame—he knew my mind was infallible when it came to money.

"Harrison," Gabriel whispered, his voice dangerously calm. "He sat at my dinner table two weeks ago. He held Eli."

"He thought you would be broken by Eli's disappearance," I said. "He expected you to lose your mind, throw money at ransom demands, and sign over the port assets without reading the fine print."

Gabriel slowly closed the tablet screen. He looked up at me, a dark, terrifying pride blazing in his gray eyes.

"You didn't just survive his trap, Claire," Gabriel said softly. "You just handed me his head on a silver platter."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, my heart pounding.

Gabriel walked around the desk, standing directly in front of me. He reached out, his thumb gently caressing my cheekbone where the bruise had faded into a faint yellow shadow.

"Marcus Harrison is hosting his annual Autumn Charity Gala tomorrow night at the Drake Hotel," Gabriel said, his lips curving into a cold, lethal smile. "Every politician, judge, and police commander in Illinois will be in that ballroom."