Elena did not tear the earbuds from her ears. She did not smash the phone, nor did she let out the scream that clawed fiercely at the back of her throat.

Valentino Visconti looked like a ghost of the man who had ruled Wall Street logistics. His hair was uncombed, his designer suits wrinkled, and his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights of emergency board meetings and frantic phone calls that went straight to voicemail.

His accounts were drained. His European ports were blocked by Vanguard loyalists. And the elite partners who once bowed to his authority were now ghosting his calls.

Desperation—cold and sharp—finally broke his pride.

He drove his car out to the secluded gates of the Hudson Valley estate, parking illegally on the gravel shoulder as security lasers locked onto his vehicle from every direction.

He rolled down his window, staring up at the towering iron gates.

"Elena!" Valentino shouted into the empty air, his voice cracking. "Elena, open the gates! We need to talk!"

Ten minutes passed. The heavy iron gates slowly groaned open, parting like the jaws of a beast.

Valentino didn't hesitate. He slammed his foot on the gas, driving up the winding stone driveway and throwing his car into park right in front of the grand oak double doors.

He leapt out, slammed the door, and pounded his fists against the wood.