At my own birthday party, my husband tied me to a ceiling beam and whipped me thirty times because I had spilled wine on his mistress’s dress. He laughed as fifty guests watched me endure the humiliation, but when they finally cut me down, I made one phone call to my five brothers, and seconds later, the mansion gates slammed shut.

The transition of the Cole estate into the Moretti Sanctuary moved with the terrifying speed characteristic of my family’s operations. Within six weeks, the opulent, ostentatious symbols of Gilded Age wealth were systematically dismantled. The crystal chandeliers were auctioned off, with every dollar funneled directly into the victim assistance fund. The heavy velvet drapes were replaced with wide, clear glass panels that flooded the marble corridors with natural light.

I moved back into the primary suite of the Moretti estate in Hyde Park, but my daily life was now centered around the project at the former Cole property. I was no longer the quiet wife sitting silently at the end of a dinner table while men discussed concrete supply lines and zoning permits.

I was the director.

At nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning, I sat in the newly renovated conference room—formerly Richard Cole’s private cigar lounge—surrounded by six of the city’s top trauma specialists, social workers, and legal consultants.

"The initial intake capacity will be forty residents," Dr. Elena Vance—no relation to the corrupt commissioner—explained, sliding a program outline across the glass table. "Full psychological support, medical rehabilitation, and on-site legal representation provided by Luca’s associate firm."

"Make it sixty," I said, reviewing the budget line items. "Gabriel has expanded the endowment trust by another five million dollars this morning. Money will not be an issue for this facility. Ever."

The door to the conference room opened, and Nico stepped inside, holding a thin grey tablet. He didn't interrupt; he simply leaned against the doorframe until the meeting concluded fifteen minutes later.

Once the staff had gathered their papers and exited, Nico walked over to the desk and dropped the tablet in front of me.

"A gift from the state prosecutor’s office," Nico said. "The asset forfeiture statement for the Cole family’s remaining personal items."

I scrolled through the list. Watches, artwork, designer clothing collections, private membership shares at exclusive country clubs. Everything was tagged, numbered, and set for public liquidation.

"What about the personal papers?" I asked.

"Gabriel went through them line by line," Nico replied. "It turns out Richard Cole was keeping an extensive secondary ledger dating back twenty years. Names, dates, payoff amounts for every city inspector, state politician, and union boss who took a bribe to look the other way on sub-standard building materials."

I looked up, my interest piqued. "Sub-standard building materials?"

Nico’s face darkened slightly. "The harbor bridge extension completed three years ago? Cole Construction used concrete mixed with low-grade aggregate to save four million dollars on the contract. The structural integrity reports were completely falsified."

A cold spike of anger hit my chest. "A public bridge?"

"A public bridge," Nico nodded. "Dominic has already dispatched our own engineering teams to inspect the footings. If it’s as bad as the ledger suggests, we'll have to retro-fit the entire northern span at our own expense before the city notices."

"No," I corrected him, setting the tablet down. "Not at our expense. At the expense of the insurance underwriters who backed Cole Construction. Luca will handle the claims."

Nico chuckled. "You're getting better at this than Dominic."