The heavy oak door of the third-floor study clicked shut behind Raphael, sealing off the world of shipping manifests, encrypted ledgers, and bloody territorial disputes. Down the servant staircase, Josephine Hartley hovered by the wooden banister like a ghost afraid of leaving a footprint.

Twenty minutes later, the air in the underground parking garage of the Chicago high-rise was thick with exhaust fumes and suffocating tension.

Raphael stepped out of the private elevator onto Sub-Level 3, his overcoat brushing against his holster, a heavy encrypted data drive clutched in his right hand. The sprawling concrete bay was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic dripping of water from a cracked overhead pipe.

“I told you to come alone, Raphael!” Thorne’s voice echoed off the concrete pillars from somewhere deep in the shadows.

Out from behind a row of parked armored SUVs stepped Marcus Thorne, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries holding automatic weapons. In the center of the bay, the bound Orsini security guard was strapped upright to a concrete support column, a live digital timer strapped to his chest.

“I’m here, Thorne,” Raphael said, stopping twenty paces away. He held up the data drive. “The master ledger. Every offshore account, every shipping route, every operational code. It’s all on this drive.”

Thorne smiled, a cruel, twisted expression. “Smart dog. Toss it across the concrete.”

Raphael didn't move. “Let the guard go first.”

“You’re not in a position to negotiate—” Thorne began, raising his pistol toward Raphael’s chest.

Before Thorne could pull the trigger, a sharp, metallic clink echoed from the ventilation shafts high above the parking bay.

Thorne’s mercenaries looked up too late.

From an overhead utility grate, a heavy industrial cable dropped with lightning speed. Josephine Hartley—dressed in tactical black gear, her hair pulled back tightly—swung down from the rafters like a phantom, her boots crashing squarely into the chest of the nearest mercenary with bone-crushing force.