The rain outside the Newport estate lashed against the leaded glass windows, mirroring the frost gathering in Dominic Mercer’s chest. The text from Brooke’s brother—Move faster—was still glowing on her phone upstairs, but downstairs, the chessboard was already set. Dominic had slipped back into his secure study

Midnight at the Newport shipping terminals was a maze of towering steel containers, crashing waves, and flickering amber sodium lights. Dominic moved through the shadows alone, his black coat blending seamlessly with the wet asphalt. He had left his security detail two miles back, moving as bait to draw out whoever was lurking in the old subterranean cable terminal.

The heavy iron door of the disused pump house creaked open, unlocked.

Dominic stepped inside, his hand resting casually on the butt of his sidearm. The interior smelled of damp concrete, rust, and old salt water. A single halogen work light flickered in the center of the damp room, casting long, twisting shadows across the walls.

Standing beside a glowing laptop console was a figure wrapped in a heavy marine parka, the hood pulled low over their face.

"You took your time getting here, Dominic," a smooth, distorted voice echoed off the concrete walls.

The figure lowered the hood.

Dominic’s dark eyes narrowed sharply. It wasn't a syndicate boss. It wasn't a foreign cartel enforcer.

It was Eleanor Vance—the long-lost, supposedly deceased aunt of Brooke, who had vanished from New England society twenty years ago after embezzling millions from the original Mercer-Vance shipping alliance.

"Eleanor," Dominic said, his voice entirely devoid of surprise. "Everyone thought you died in a yacht explosion off the Azores."

Eleanor smiled, a cold, calculating grin that bore an unsettling resemblance to Brooke’s manic expressions. "Death is a very useful corporate strategy when federal regulators are closing in, Dominic. I’ve been running the real empire from the shadows while you and your little family played house in the mansion."

"And Brooke?" Dominic asked coldly.

"Brooke was a blunt instrument," Eleanor scoffed, stepping closer. "Ambitious, but fragile. She thought marrying you would give her the keys to the kingdom. She didn't realize that the kingdom was never yours to begin with—it was built on stolen Vance capital."

"Stolen?" Dominic stepped forward, his presence filling the damp room with suffocating pressure. "Your grandfather signed over the port rights to Catherine Mercer in 1984 to settle his gambling debts. The Mercer family owns every inch of this coastline legally, financially, and morally."