“Mister, put your dog in timeout!” Three-year-old Lucy Bennett marched into the private meeting of the most feared man in Chicago with one hand on her hip and the other gripping what remained of a stuffed rabbit.

Three days passed in an eerie, suspended silence.

The sleet gave way to crisp, crystalline winter sun. Lucy spent her mornings in the grand library, lining up Vincent's vintage leather-bound editions of Dickens and Tolstoy to create "tunnels" for her toy cars. Bishop lay across the doorway, acting as a massive, furry tollbooth that required payment in the form of ear scratches before anyone was permitted to enter.

Vincent had not left the estate since the incident in the cellar.

He took his calls from the terrace, dressed in heavy wool sweaters, pacing the stone balustrade with a secure satellite phone pressed to his ear. Nora watched him from the kitchen window as she polished silver. There was a coiled, predatory stillness to him now—like an archer holding a drawn bowstring, waiting for the wind to drop.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, the front gate chime sounded.

It was not the alarm. It was the formal visitor bell.

Mason appeared at the kitchen door, his face pale, his coat buttoned tightly to his throat. "Vincent. It's Marcus Valenti's town car. Just one vehicle. No escort."

Vincent stepped in from the terrace, tossing his phone onto the side table. He didn't look surprised. "Open the gate."

"Boss?" Mason hesitated. "Inside the perimeter?"

"I said open the gate, Mason. Bring him to the formal parlor. Do not offer him a drink."

Nora dropped the silver polishing cloth onto the tray. Her heart leapt into her throat. "Vincent, no. Not here. Lucy is upstairs—"

"Lucy stays in the library with Bishop," Vincent said, turning to her. He reached out, his thumb catching her chin, lifting her face until her eyes were pinned to his. "Listen to me carefully, Nora. Marcus Valenti is a hyena. He feeds on corpses and old men. He came here today because he wants to smell blood. If he smells fear, he bites. If he smells iron, he walks away."

"What do I do?" she whispered.

"You pour the tea," Vincent said, his thumb brushing over her lower lip with agonizing slowness. "And you let him see that you belong here."

Before she could process the implication of his words, Vincent dropped his hand, smoothed his sweater, and walked toward the grand foyer.

Ten minutes later, Marcus Valenti sat on the antique velvet settee in the Calder parlor.

Valenti was sixty years old, gaunt, dressed in an immaculate camel-hair coat with a silk scarf knotted at his throat. His silver hair was slicked back, and his dark eyes were watery, cold, and ancient. Behind him stood two bodyguards whose coats bulged conspicuously at the ribs.

Vincent sat opposite him in a high-backed wing chair, his legs crossed, looking like an emperor granting an audience to a troublesome provincial governor.

Nora entered carrying a silver service tray. Her hands were ice-cold, but she kept them steady, placing the porcelain cups on the low table between the two men.

Valenti's eyes slid over her immediately. They were oily, calculating, appraising her like an auction lot.

"So," Valenti purred, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "This is the little flower from Peoria. Greg Bennett’s runaway bride."

Nora poured the tea without looking up. Her hands did not shake.

"Her name is Nora," Vincent said. The voice was quiet, but it had the density of lead. "And you will address her as Mrs. Bennett, or you will leave this room without your tongue, Marcus."

Valenti’s thin smile froze. He glanced at the two guards behind him, then back at Vincent. "A little sensitive today, Vincent? Over a housekeeper?"

"She isn't the housekeeper anymore," Vincent replied evenly.

Nora froze, teapot suspended over the second cup. She looked at Vincent, her breath catching in her chest.

Vincent didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on Valenti.

"As of eight o'clock this morning," Vincent stated with complete authority, "Mrs. Bennett holds twenty percent of Calder Logistics. She sits on the executive board for Pier 14. Which means, Marcus... any debt Greg Bennett accumulated with your bookies is officially a corporate dispute. And corporate disputes in Cook County are settled under my jurisdiction."

Valenti's eyes narrowed to slits. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't tie your shipping licenses to a broke waitress with a three-year-old bastard."

The study door clicked open.

A small voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling.