The mahogany door to the nursery didn’t yield easily. For years, I had kicked down reinforced steel doors, broken through rival syndicates' perimeters, and forced compliance out of men twice my size. Yet standing in my own home, staring at a simple brass keyhole, my hands felt unusually heavy.

Two weeks later.

The salt-crusted air of a small, sun-drenched fishing village on the southern coast of France smelled of roasted garlic, fresh bread, and the endless expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.

I sat at a wobbly wooden table outside a modest seaside café, wearing a faded cotton shirt and worn canvas trousers. My hands—once feared across the entire Midwest of America, hands that had signed death warrants, counted millions in dirty cash, and held the throat of a criminal empire—now held a simple ceramic mug of bitter black coffee.

Across the cobbled square, local fishermen were hauling their morning catch off wooden boats, shouting back and forth in rapid, musical French. Children laughed as they chased stray dogs along the rocky seawall.

No one looked at me twice. No one lowered their voice when I walked past. No one feared Daniel Carter, because Daniel Carter no longer existed.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared photograph I had managed to slip from the dossier Alistair gave me—a picture of Elena laughing as she played the piano in the Swiss villa, her dark curls catching the sunlight.

I stared at it for a long time, tracing the edge of the paper with my thumb.

A gentle breeze swept across the Mediterranean, carrying the scent of salt and blooming lavender. I folded the photograph, placed it carefully back into my pocket, and looked out toward the endless horizon where the blue sky met the brilliant, unbroken sea.