Cleo Radner was sitting at the island in Elise's chenille robe. Bare feet hooked on the bar stool rung. A glass of wine in one hand, red to the halfway mark, and a single sheet of paper lying flat on the counter in front of her. The paper had a signature line. Elise's name was printed beneath it.

The kitchen looked immaculate.

The island counter was spotless. The chenille robe was gone. In the center of the room sat Elise Morrow, dressed in a simple dark sweater and wool trousers, her hands folded over the high, round swell of her belly.

She was not trembling. She was sipping hot chamomile tea from a ceramic mug.

"Put the gun on the table, Landon," she said without looking at the weapon. "You won't shoot me."

Landon stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt. "You think I won't? You destroyed everything I built. You gave my ledgers to Sterling! You turned the waterfront against me!"

"You destroyed yourself the day you pushed me down those stairs," Elise said, setting her cup down with a steady hand. "You thought power was about force. You thought because you could knock me down, you owned me. But force is just the clumsy weapon of men who don't know how the world actually works."

"Give me the Zurich codes," Landon demanded, stepping forward, leveling the Glock directly at her forehead. "The Swiss account numbers and the authorization key. Now. Or you don't live to see that baby take her first breath."

Elise looked up at the black barrel of the gun. Her heart was beating fast—she could feel it in her throat—but her eyes remained as calm and gray as the northern sea.

"Look at the floor, Landon," she said quietly.

Landon blinked. "What?"

"Look at your feet."

Landon glanced down. He was standing directly in the center of the kitchen floorboards—right over the access hatch of the old coal chute.

Before he could react, Elise reached under the counter and pressed a small industrial toggle switch.

A deafening pneumatic hiss split the air. The heavy floorboards beneath Landon's boots dropped open on hydraulic pistons—a modification Vance had installed forty-eight hours ago.

Landon dropped three feet, his legs plunging into the reinforced steel containment box set into the floor. He pitched forward, slamming his chest against the kitchen tiles, his gun clattering across the floor directly toward Elise’s feet.

He roared in fury, thrashing to pull his legs free, but the steel collars snapped shut around his calves with a heavy, mechanical *clack.*

Elise picked up the Glock with two fingers, ejected the magazine, racked the slide to clear the chambered round, and laid both pieces out of his reach.

Then she stood up. Slowly, carefully supporting her weight.

Heavy tactical boots thudded against the front porch. The front double doors burst open with a crash, and eight fully armed federal marshals, led by Dominic Vance and Marcus Sterling, flooded the hallway with red laser sights trained on Landon’s head.

"Federal agents! Don't move!"

Landon lay trapped in the floor, screaming curses, spitting blood as the zip-ties were wrenched around his wrists. He looked up at Elise, his eyes wild with incomprehension.

"You baited me..." he choked out. "You... you were never alone."

Elise looked down at him from her full height, her hand resting protective and serene over her daughter.

"I haven't been alone since the night I left this house, Landon," she said softly. "The difference between you and me is simple: you buy loyalty with fear, and the moment you run out of money, you have nothing left."

She turned her back on him as the marshals hauled him out of the floor.