They dragged my maid into the center of my mansion and branded her a thief in front of everyone—but the necklace beneath her collar exposed the accusation as a trap. She wasn’t an ordinary servant. She was the last living witness to the betrayal that slaughtered my family and turned me into the man everyone feared.

By three in the morning, the grand foyer had been cleared. Mateo's cleaning detail moved with terrifying efficiency, erasing every bloodstain, removing the bodies of the mercenaries, and repairing the shattered marble molding before the rain outside had even begun to slow down.

Down in the subterranean vault beneath the estate's wine cellar—a room built with three-foot-thick concrete walls and soundproof insulation—Renata was bound securely to an iron chair beneath a single overhead halogen bulb.

I sat on a wooden crate opposite her, sipping black coffee from a porcelain cup, while Mateo stood by the iron door, checking his tactical radio.

Renata was hyperventilating, her eyes darting frantically around the windowless bunker.

"Where is Vittorio?" I asked, my voice calm, almost conversational.

"I don't know!" she wept, tears streaming down her face. "I swear to God, Lorenzo, I don't know where he lives! He only contacts me through disposable satellite phones!"

"Renata," I said softly, setting my coffee cup down on a nearby metal tray. "You've worked for me for eight years. You know how I operate. You know that I don't ask questions twice."

I pulled a sleek silver satellite phone from my jacket pocket—the phone Mateo had recovered from the pocket of the lead mercenary we had eliminated in the foyer.

"This phone rang two minutes ago," I continued, holding it up. "The caller ID was a secured local line originating from a private dock facility near the Bridgeport industrial canal. That's where Vittorio is waiting for the confirmation call, isn't it?"

Renata's mouth closed tightly. A stubborn, defensive look crossed her face. "If I tell you... if I give him to you... you'll kill me anyway."

"If you don't tell me," I replied, leaning in until she could see her own reflection in my dark eyes, "you will stay in this chair for the next thirty years. You will never see the sun. You will never hear another human voice. And when you finally die in this dark room, nobody will even remember your name."

She stared at me, shivering violently as the absolute truth of my words settled into her soul. She knew I wasn't bluffing. In the syndicate underworld, my word was law.

"Bridgeport," she whimpered, her spirit breaking completely. "Pier 42. It's an abandoned fish packing plant. He bought it three years ago through a shell company in Panama. He keeps his private yacht docked there... he was planning to take the steel canister and flee to South America the moment he confirmed Clara was dead."

I stood up, adjusting the cuffs of my suit jacket.

"Thank you, Renata," I said gently.

"Will... will you let me go?" she asked, a tiny sliver of hope rising in her voice.

I turned my back on her, walking toward the heavy iron door. "Mateo will handle your accommodations. You'll be transferred to a maximum-security safehouse in northern Canada. You'll spend the rest of your life watching trees through a barred window."

I stepped out into the hallway, leaving her crying hysterically in the dark room.

Mateo followed me out, closing the heavy vault door with a thud. "Boss, do we hit Pier 42 tonight?"

"No," I replied, checking my watch. "Vittorio is expecting a confirmation signal from that satellite phone within twenty minutes. If he doesn't get it, he'll smell a trap and bolt. We need to lure him out into the open."

"How?" Mateo asked.