The kitchen chandelier above them seemed to hum with a vicious, low vibration, reflecting the crimson wine that Delphine Ashworth still held in her hand. For a woman standing on the precipice of utter ruin, Delphine’s fingers were remarkably steady—or perhaps she was simply paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of what had just unfolded.

Four uniformed Illinois State Police troopers stood in a semicircle around the marble fountain, their hands resting nervously on the holsters of their service weapons. In front of them stood Senator Thomas Ashworth—a tall, silver-haired politician with an expensive suit, a permanently flushed face, and veins bulging at his temples from unadulterated rage.

"Where is she, Vance?" Senator Ashworth barked as Matteo descended the grand staircase, his black wool coat draped over his shoulders like a cape, walking with the slow, terrifying confidence of a king descending into his throne room.

"Good morning, Senator," Matteo said smoothly, stepping off the bottom stair. "Nice of you to drop by uninvited. Usually, my lobbyists have to book an appointment three weeks in advance to see you."

"Don't play games with me, Matteo!" Ashworth snarled, stepping forward until one of the state troopers instinctively stepped in front of him, hand twitching near his gun. "Delphine’s phone went dark two nights ago! Her apartment was untouched, her car is in the garage, and your security team has been blocking all communication from her friends. What did you do to my daughter?"

Matteo stopped ten feet away. He didn't look at the senator; instead, his eyes flicked toward the four state troopers.

"Officers," Matteo said calmly. "Are you aware you’re trespassing on private property without a signed federal warrant?"

The lead trooper shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Rafael, who was now leaning against the banister with a very large, very illegal submachine gun hidden beneath a light trench coat. "Mr. Vance, we received a missing person report—"

"A missing person report filed by a man who takes fifty-thousand-dollar cash installments from my shipping accounts every month," Matteo interrupted smoothly.

Ashworth’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. "That’s a malicious lie! You have no proof—"

"Rafael," Matteo said without breaking eye contact.

Rafael reached into his coat, pulled out a heavy brown envelope, and tossed it across the marble floor. It slid across the polished stone until it bumped against the polished leather shoe of the lead state trooper.

"Open it," Matteo instructed.

The trooper hesitated, then knelt, breaking the seal. He pulled out a sheaf of documents, bank statements, and high-resolution photographs showing Senator Ashworth accepting briefcases filled with unmarked cash inside a private VIP room.

The trooper’s face paled instantly. He looked up at the senator, horror dawning in his eyes. "Senator... what is this?"

"It’s garbage!" Ashworth screamed, lunging forward to snatch the papers, but Rafael’s heavy boot came down on top of them, pinning them to the floor. "He’s a criminal! He forges documents! Arrest him! Arrest him right now!"

None of the troopers moved. They were state police, not fools. In Chicago, crossing Matteo Vance was a guaranteed one-way ticket to the bottom of Lake Michigan, especially when armed with proof of their own politician's treason.

"Your daughter," Matteo said, his voice dropping into a low, menacing register, "decided she was tired of high-society life in Chicago. She boarded a private cargo flight to South America two nights ago. She sends her regards—though, given the conditions of our jungle facilities in Bogotá, she might be a bit too busy learning humility to write letters."

Ashworth lunged forward, his face twisted in primal fury. "You psychotic animal! I'll have the FBI—"

Before the senator could finish his sentence, Matteo crossed the distance between them with terrifying speed. He grabbed Ashworth by the expensive silk tie, hauling him off his feet until the politician’s toes barely brushed the marble floor.

"You will walk out those front doors," Matteo whispered, his breath hot and lethal against the senator's ear, "get into your car, and drive back to Springfield. You will never utter your daughter's name in my presence again. And if you ever—ever—send another armed thug onto my property, I won't just release your financial records. I'll release the audit of your entire campaign fund to the cartel bosses you cheated out of three million dollars last winter."

Matteo released his grip. Ashworth hit the floor coughing, gasping for air, clutching his ruined tie as his dignity dissolved into dust.

"Get him out of my house," Matteo commanded.

The state troopers didn't hesitate this time. They grabbed the sputtering, humiliated senator by his arms and practically dragged him out the front doors, slamming them shut behind him.

The heavy silence of the mansion returned.