Adelaide stared at the ten crisp hundred-dollar bills spread across the worn-out formica table like a blood stain on a wedding dress. One thousand dollars. More than her weekly rent. More than the surcharge the nursing home had threatened to slap her with if she didn’t clear the balance by Friday.

The car didn't take her to a fancy restaurant in Tribeca or a steakhouse in Midtown. It drove north, winding up into the affluent, heavily wooded hills of Riverdale, stopping before an iron gate framed by old stone pillars and towering oak trees.

A sprawling estate sat at the end of a long, curving gravel driveway—a massive brick-and-limestone mansion that looked like old money had lived there for a century before the Rosettis ever set foot in New York.

When Adelaide stepped out of the car, adjusting the emerald-green velvet dress she had bought on a sudden impulse with her first advance check, a housekeeper met her at the heavy oak front door and led her through a cavernous foyer lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in dark suits.

She was led not to a formal dining room, but to an expansive stone patio overlooking the dark, rolling waters of the Hudson River.

A fire pit crackled in the center of the patio, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone. Two men were standing near the railing, holding crystal tumblers of amber liquor.

Maxim Rosetti turned as her heels clicked against the patio stones.

He was wearing a black cashmere sweater that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, his sleeves pushed up slightly. Beside him stood a stocky, heavy-set man in his late forties with slicked-back graying hair, thick gold rings on both hands, and an expression of sour, simmering contempt.

Dante Rossi.

"Ah," Dante said, his voice thick with a heavy Brooklyn accent, raising his glass mockingly toward Adelaide. "The new pencil-pusher. I heard rumors downstairs that the boss had hired a refugee from a greasy spoon to run our logistics. Didn't realize she came with a fashion budget."

Adelaide didn't blink. She walked right past him, not even giving him the courtesy of a glance, and stopped two feet from Maxim.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Rosetti?" she asked, her tone entirely professional, ignoring Dante completely.

Maxim’s dark eyes swept over her, taking in the emerald dress, the sharp line of her posture, the cool confidence in her gaze. A faint, approving glint flickered in his eyes before vanishing beneath his usual mask of stoic control.

"Dante was just telling me about his concerns regarding the new warehouse audit," Maxim said smoothly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Wants to know why a waitress from Queens is suddenly questioning twenty years of operational procedure at the Red Hook terminal."

Dante stepped forward, his face flushing a mottled red, his gold rings catching the firelight.

"Listen to me, you arrogant little clerk," Dante snarled, pointing a thick finger at her face. "I've been running those docks since before you knew what a shipping manifest looked like. You come in here with your spreadsheets and your corporate buzzwords trying to pin inventory losses on my crews? I ought to—"

"You ought to keep your voice down, Dante," Adelaide interrupted, her voice cutting through the night air like a scalpel.

Dante choked on his own breath. "What did you say to me?"

Adelaide turned her head slowly, looking at him the way a biologist might examine an unpleasant specimen under a microscope.

"I said keep your voice down," she repeated, her voice dropping into a calm, ice-cold register. "And while you're at it, you might want to review your shell corporation paperwork in Delaware. Registration number 784-B. Filed under a dummy holding company called Apex Logistics. Except whoever set it up made a rookie mistake: they used the same IP address to file the state incorporation papers that was registered to your personal broadband account in Dyker Heights."

Dante went entirely, deathly pale. The glass in his hand trembled, amber whiskey sloshing over the crystal rim.

"You're... you're lying," Dante choked out, looking frantically toward Maxim. "Maxim, she’s making this up! She’s trying to frame me—"

"I didn't make up anything, Dante," Adelaide said, stepping closer, her presence suddenly overwhelming the patio. "You stole four million dollars worth of electronics and luxury goods over six months, fenced them through a network in New Jersey, and thought you could hide behind your bloodline because you figured Maxim was too busy running the whole city to check the docks."