The storm broke over Chicago at midnight, tearing through the alleys with a freezing rain that turned the pavement into black glass.

The grand kitchen of the Moretti estate was usually a hive of hurried activity by mid-morning, but today it was entirely empty, save for the hum of the industrial refrigerators. Mrs. Gable stood by the marble counter, methodically polishing a silver tea set, her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. She didn't look up when the heavy oak doors swung open and footsteps echoed across the tile floor.

"You're late with the morning coffee, Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Gable said smoothly, her voice completely devoid of fear. "The staff has been unsettled since last night's noise."

Lorenzo stopped a few paces away from her. Marco flanked the doorway, blocking any exit.

"You've been with us a long time, Martha," Lorenzo said quietly, resting his hands in his pockets. "Twenty years. You held me when my mother died. You watched me take over the syndicate."

"I did," Mrs. Gable turned around, setting the polishing cloth down. She met his cold gaze without flinching. "And I watched you let this house rot from the inside out because you couldn't let go of a ghost in the river."

"Is that why you gave Salvatore the codes?" Lorenzo’s voice didn't rise an octave, but the temperature in the room plummeted below freezing. "Is that why you planted my new archivist's ID on the terminal?"

Mrs. Gable let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Salvatore is a fool, but he promised to clean house. He promised to get rid of the parasites—the wandering children, the helpless mothers, all the weak links that turned the great Lorenzo Moretti into a soft, sentimental fool who spends his afternoons playing hairdresser with a stray kid!"