Gabriel’s eyes did not leave Evan’s face. Fourteen years of blood, sweat, midnight phone calls, and silent understandings hung in the quiet foyer of the mansion, reduced to the steady, deceptive hum of the grandfather clock.

The lobby of Rowan Freight Tower was a masterpiece of polished limestone and brushed steel, usually humming with the quiet efficiency of brokers and logistics managers. Today, it was dead silent.

Security guards stood back in a wide semicircle, their hands resting cautiously near their utility belts, staring at a small figure sitting on the edge of the white leather visitor's couch.

She looked to be about nine years old, wearing an oversized gray hoodie and clutching a battered leather schoolbag. When she heard the elevator doors slide open, she looked up. Her eyes weren't frightened. They were cold, old beyond their years, and carried that terrifyingly sharp observation Gabriel had come to associate with children who grew up watching the wrong doors close.

Gabriel crossed the lobby in three long strides, stopping a few feet away from her.

“Where did you get that?” Gabriel asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out a small brass key. A chipped dot of blue enamel marked the side—an exact twin to the key Lucy had found in the mansion’s service corridor weeks ago.

“My brother said if he didn't call by noon, I should give this to the man who owns the freight yards,” she said, her voice completely flat, devoid of childhood warmth. “He said your name was Gabriel Rowan. He said you owed him a debt from 2014.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. 2014. The year he transitioned from the docks to the boardroom. The year he thought he had wiped his slate clean of every blood debt he had ever incurred.