“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.

The parlor plunged into a silence so profound Nora could hear the grandfather clock ticking three rooms away.

Lucy stood in the archway. She was wearing her pink socks with the rubber treads, carrying Captain Carrot by his remaining ear. Behind her, towering over her like a black-and-tan phantom, Bishop stood with his head lowered, his ears flat, his yellow eyes pinned directly on Marcus Valenti's chest.

Valenti's guards flinched, their hands twitching instinctively toward their lapels.

"Don't," Vincent said.

He didn't shout. He didn't even raise his voice. But both guards froze instantly, sweat breaking out on the temples of the taller man.

"Bishop," Vincent called softly.

The dog didn't take his eyes off Valenti, but he took two massive, silent strides forward, placing his front paws squarely between Lucy and the visitors. A low, vibrating hum began in the dog's chest—not a bark, but the warning click of a detonator.

"Lucy," Nora said, her voice trembling as she rushed toward the archway. "Come here, baby."

"No," Lucy said stubbornly, pointing a finger at Marcus Valenti. "That man is wearing shoes on the carpet. You said no shoes on the carpet, Mommy."

A beat of absolute, absurd silence hung in the room.

Then, Marcus Valenti looked down at his handmade Italian leather loafers. He looked up at the tiny girl. And then, for the first time since he had walked through the Calder gates, a sliver of genuine, unvarnished fear flickered in his watery eyes.

He didn't fear the child. He feared the man who was watching the child.

Vincent had risen from the wing chair. He stood six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, and entirely lethal. The casual indifference was gone; in its place was a cold, absolute readiness that made the air in the parlor feel thin and unbreathable.

"You have five seconds to leave this house, Marcus," Vincent said.

Valenti swallowed hard, his throat working against his silk scarf. "Vincent, we had an agreement regarding the northern corridor—"

"Four."

Valenti rose, his knees popping faintly. He didn't look at Nora. He didn't look at Lucy. He backed toward the foyer, his two bodyguards keeping their eyes glued to the ninety-pound Malinois whose lips were now pulling back from ivory teeth.

"This isn't over, Calder," Valenti hissed from the safety of the hallway. "The commission won't let you absorb the south side ports over an insolent brat!"

"Three," Vincent said, his voice dropping into the register of a tomb.

Valenti turned on his heel and hurried out, the heavy front doors slamming behind him with a crash that rattled the crystal chandelier.

The silence returned, thick and electric.

Nora dropped to her knees, pulling Lucy into a fierce, desperate embrace. She buried her face in her daughter’s hair, her shoulders shaking with silent, wracking sobs.

Lucy patted Nora’s shoulder with Captain Carrot. "Mommy, don't cry. He took his shoes away."

A shadow fell over them.

Vincent was standing above them. He looked down at the woman and child huddled on his Persian rug, his expression an unreadable mix of darkness and something ancient, fierce, and entirely broken open.

He knelt.

His heavy wool trousers brushed against Nora's skirt. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping the side of Nora's head, pressing her gently against his chest.