The heavy iron door clicked shut behind Dr. Vance, echoing through the vaulted corridor like a falling gavel. Lorenzo didn’t look up from his desk. He already knew the verdict before the man spoke. He knew it by the way Vance’s loafers dragged against the imported Persian rug, and by the tight, sterile smell of hand sanitizer the physician carried with him like a shroud.

By 2:00 PM, the atmosphere inside the Duca estate was thicker than the air before a summer hurricane.

Marcus Sterling stepped out of his sleek black town car, adjusting his gold-rimmed cufflinks with practiced ease. He carried a leather portfolio tucked securely under his arm, his face carved into an expression of solemn, professional grief. He had received Sal's message an hour ago: The boy is gone. Mr. Duca is ready to sign over the holdings.

Marcus suppressed a triumphant smile. For three years, he had orchestrated the slow erosion of the Duca empire from the inside out, using Dr. Vance to neutralize the heir while he systematically rerouted offshore accounts into shell corporations controlled by the syndicate. Today, the crown would finally change hands.

He walked up the marble front steps, noting with mild amusement that the usual guards patrolling the perimeter seemed unusually scarce. The heavy oak front door stood wide open.

"Lorenzo?" Marcus called out smoothly as he stepped into the grand foyer. "I’m so sorry to hear about... well, I brought the final liquidation documents as requested."

No one answered from the foyer. Instead, a soft click echoed from above.

Marcus looked up toward the grand staircase. Standing at the landing of the second floor, bathed in the sharp afternoon light, was Lorenzo Duca. He wasn't wearing his usual suit jacket; his white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint streaks of dried blood.

"Marcus," Lorenzo said, his voice echoing off the marble pillars. "Come up. We have business to finish."

Marcus felt a sudden, icy shiver crawl up his spine. Something wasn't right. The air in the house felt heavy, charged with an invisible, suffocating tension. But greed and arrogance whispered that it was just a grieving father surrendering to the inevitable.

Marcus climbed the stairs, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone. When he reached the landing, Lorenzo gestured silently toward the heavy double doors leading to the third-floor private wing.

"After you," Lorenzo said.

Marcus pushed the door open and stepped inside the medical suite.

The room was brightly lit now. Sitting in a chair beside the bed was Dr. Aris Vance—though his face was adorned with a massive purple bruise, a swollen lip, and wrists bound tightly behind him with heavy zip-ties. Standing behind Vance were two of Lorenzo’s most trusted enforcers, their hands resting ominously inside their jackets.