The cabin lights flickered back to life, casting a pale, clinical yellow glow over the rows of first class. The overhead oxygen masks dangled like dead vines, swaying gently with the residual shudder of the aircraft. But nobody was reaching for them.

At 10:15 AM, the executive boardroom on the fifty-fifth floor of Moretti Tower in Manhattan was dead silent.

The floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of a gray, rain-drenched skyline, but nobody was looking at the view.

David Vance, my Senior Vice President of Acquisitions—a polished, silver-haired man in a bespoke Brioni suit—sat nervously at the end of the mahogany conference table, repeatedly adjusting his gold Rolex.

"Luca," David said, offering a tight, anxious smile as I walked into the room, my long black overcoat sweeping behind me. "I didn't expect you to fly back from Boston so suddenly. The Boston acquisition team said you canceled our morning sync."

I didn't answer him right away. I walked slowly to the head of the table, pulling off my leather gloves and laying them down with a sharp clack on the wood.

I took my seat, leaning back and resting my chin on my intertwined fingers, staring directly into David’s eyes.

"David," I said smoothly. "How long have we worked together?"

David blinked, taken aback by the casual, conversational tone. "Uh... seven years, Luca. Ever since you acquired Apex Properties."

"Seven years," I repeated, nodding slowly. "That’s a long time to build trust. A long time to learn the ins and outs of my portfolio. My assets. My hidden accounts."

David’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. The micro-twitch in his left eye gave him away. "Of... of course. I manage your major acquisitions, so I see most of the ledger."

"Most of the ledger," I echoed. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a thick manila folder, and slid it across the polished mahogany table until it stopped right in front of his coffee cup.

David stared at the folder, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He didn't touch it.

"Open it," I commanded softly.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, David reached out and flipped open the cover. Inside were three sheets of paper:

Bank transfer records routing millions of dollars from an offshore shell corporation in the Cayman Islands directly to a personal account in Zurich under the name David Vance.

A transcript of encrypted data packets sent from his corporate terminal to an IP address registered in Queens—the exact warehouse district where Grigori and his syndicate operated.

A digital copy of the federal database query on Elena Walsh, stamped with his personal corporate login credentials.

The color completely drained from David’s face until he looked like a corpse in a tailored suit.

"Luca... I can explain," he stammered, his voice cracking violently as he half-rose from his chair. "It’s... it’s not what it looks like! The Russians—they threatened my family! They had my son—"

Before he could finish the sentence, the heavy boardroom doors swung open.

Marcus stepped inside, flanked by two massive men in dark suits. Between them was a tall, rough-looking man with a jagged scar running down his cheek—Grigori’s top enforcer, whom my men had intercepted outside David’s Manhattan apartment thirty minutes prior.

The enforcer took one look at me, then at David, and let out a bloody, arrogant grin.

"Looks like the great Luca Moretti finally figured out who let the rats in," the enforcer spat, blood dripping from his split lip. "You can kill us all you want, Moretti. But you’ll never find the girl. Grigori already has—"

Bang.

The sound wasn't a gunshot—it was my fist slamming down onto the solid mahogany table with enough force to crack the wood clean across. Every person in the room flinched.

I stood up slowly, towering over both the enforcer and my traitorous Vice President. The cold, black fury burning inside me was absolute, blinding, and terrifying.

"Grigori doesn't have anyone," I said, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that made the air in the room feel like ice. "Because the girl isn't in New York. And by the time the sun sets tonight, every single rat left in your syndicate won't just be in a box—they’ll be erased from history."

I turned my cold gaze back to David Vance, who was now weeping openly, sliding out of his chair and collapsing onto the carpet.

"Marcus," I said without looking back.