The crystal chandelier above us hummed, a low, vibrating chord that seemed to amplify the suffocating tension in the dining room. Grace stood frozen, her hands clamped tightly over her apron, her knuckles whitening until they looked like bleached bone.

The air in the penthouse seemed to vanish.

"Alive?" I stepped forward, my hands curling into fists so tight my knuckles cracked. "Where is she?"

"Oh, she's safe," Victor chuckled, taking another sip of his drink. "Being raised by a very wealthy, very discreet family overseas. No memory of you, no memory of her tragic little mother. In fact, by the time she's old enough to know the truth, you'll be nothing more than a ghost in a federal penitentiary."

"You bastard," I whispered, lunging forward.

Before my hands could reach his throat, four armed men dropped out of the recessed ceiling panels behind me, slamming me face-first onto the glass floor. The cold surface bit into my cheek as heavy boots pressed down onto my spine, pinning me in place.

Victor looked down at me, adjusting his cuffs with leisurely contempt.

"Violence, Julian? Really? After all these years as civilized men?" Victor sighed, pulling a document and a gold-plated pen from the bar table. He walked over and dropped them right in front of my face on the glass. "Sign the transfer papers. If you sign willingly, I might—might—let you know which country your daughter is living in. If you refuse, well... accidents happen in penthouses all the time. Ask gravity."

I stared at the papers. Through the glass beneath me, I could see the dizzying drop of fifty stories to the concrete street below.

"You think you've won," I choked out against the floor, my voice muffled by the glass.

"I haven't just won, Julian," Victor smiled, crouching down beside me to whisper in my ear. "I've already transferred your primary offshore accounts to my Cayman holdings. By morning, you won't just be broke—you'll be legally dead."