His brother grabbed my wrist and laughed, so I slapped him hard enough to silence the entire room. Everyone froze when the mafia boss rose from his chair. “Do you know who I am?” he asked coldly. I met his eyes and smiled. “Wait your turn.” His men reached inside their jackets—but the boss suddenly lifted one hand to stop them. Then he looked at me differently, and I realized the real punishment was only beginning.

The private suite on the tenth floor of the Drake Hotel was less of a hotel room and more of a fortress of mahogany, velvet, and bulletproof glass.

Two armed guards stood outside the double brass doors in the hallway, while Frank sat in the lounge area downstairs, monitoring encrypted radios. I was granted full access to the suite, high-speed encrypted internet, and a lavish dinner spread, but my phone had been placed in a signal-blocking Faraday box on the desk.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the dark, cold waters of Lake Michigan.

The rain tapped rhythmically against the glass, reflecting the neon amber lights of the Chicago skyline. I traced the silver links of my father’s bracelet. For twelve years, this piece of silver had been my anchor—a constant reminder of the justice I owed to the man who had taught me that numbers never lie.

The heavy double doors of the suite opened, and Adrian walked in alone.

He had removed his dark suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal tanned, corded forearms marked by faint, old scars. He held two crystal glasses filled with amber scotch.

He set one glass on the marble coffee table near my sofa and took a seat in the leather armchair opposite me.

“Your father had exceptional taste in whiskey,” Adrian said, gesturing toward the glass. “Twenty-year-old Macallan. He kept a bottle in his lower desk drawer at the old warehouse on 14th Street.”

I didn't touch the glass. “Where is Marco?”

“In a secure location in Cicero,” Adrian replied smoothly, taking a slow sip. “Where he is currently answering questions from my senior counsel and my forensic accountants.”

“He won't confess, Adrian,” I said, leaning against the window frame. “Men like Marco only confess when the fire reaches their skin.”

“He has already confessed, Elena,” Adrian corrected, setting his glass down with a soft, metallic clink. “When a man is presented with indisputable digital evidence, bank records bearing his personal biometric seal, and a statement from a mechanic who kept a carbon copy of a receipt for twelve years... he doesn't have room to lie.”

I turned to face him, my arms crossed over my chest. “Then why am I still here?”

Adrian looked at me for a long, heavy moment. The amber light from the fireplace flickered across his sharp features, casting deep shadows across his eyes.

“Because Marco didn't work alone,” Adrian said softly.

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“Eighteen million dollars is a massive amount of cash to move through international banking channels without triggering federal alerts,” Adrian explained, pulling a thin leather folder from his inner vest pocket and laying it flat on the table. “Marco is arrogant, greedy, and stupid. He doesn't possess the intellectual capacity to build a multi-layered shell system in the Caymans.”

I stepped toward the table, picking up the folder. Inside were three fresh wire transfers completed less than forty-eight hours ago—transfers I hadn't seen during my initial audit.