Effie watched in heartbreak as hostess Elfrida scraped discarded crusts and crushed pastries from a clearing tray onto her plate

The private chambers of Judge Harlan Cross were paneled in dark cherry wood and smelled of expensive Cuban tobacco and aged scotch. At sixty-two, Cross was a man who enjoyed the undisputed power of a lifetime judicial appointment.

He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, reviewing the custody petition filed under the caption In Re: The Estate and Wardship of Effie Farrow. On the desk sat a crystal glass half-filled with bourbon.

The heavy brass latch on the double doors clicked.

Cross frowned, not looking up from his papers. "I told my clerk I wasn't taking any further appointments today, Raymond. Lock the door on your way out."

"Raymond is currently taking an extended coffee break across the street," a deep, gravelly voice answered.

Judge Cross’s head snapped up.

Lysander stood inside the office, his imposing silhouette framed against the frosted glass doors. Behind him stood Viktor—six-foot-four of scarred Ukrainian muscle, wearing a heavy leather jacket and standing with his hands folded behind his back like a sentry outside an execution chamber.

Cross scrambled to stand, his face flushing crimson. "Lysander Farrow! How dare you enter my private chambers without an escort! Get out before I hold you in contempt and have the bailiffs drag you into a holding cell!"

Lysander did not shout. He walked into the room with slow, predatory grace, unbuttoning his overcoat and tossing it casually across a leather armchair. He pulled out a high-backed guest chair, dragged it directly in front of Cross’s desk, and sat down.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the mahogany wood, his heavy signet ring gleaming under the desk lamp.

"Call your bailiffs, Harlan," Lysander said softly. "Let’s see if they arrive before Viktor breaks your jaw."

Cross froze, his hand hovering inches from the silent alarm button under his desk. The sheer, physical threat radiating from Lysander was absolute. Cross had dealt with mobsters and corporate barons for thirty years, but Lysander was an entirely different beast—a man who navigated both boardrooms and bloodbaths without blinking.

"What do you want, Farrow?" Cross demanded, his voice wavering slightly. "If this is about the emergency custody petition, it is a matter of state law. Your cousin presented sworn affidavits alleging you assaulted her this afternoon."

"My cousin threw garbage at my three-year-old daughter," Lysander replied, his eyes never leaving the judge's face. "And you accepted a two-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit into a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands under your son-in-law's name forty-eight hours ago."

Cross went completely pale. The crimson flush drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking like an unburied corpse. "I... I have no idea what you're talking about."

Lysander snapped his fingers once.

Viktor stepped forward, reached inside his leather coat, and dropped a thick, blue folder onto the desk. The papers slid across the mahogany, fanning out to reveal bank wire confirmations, encrypted emails, and photographs of Cross meeting with Uncle Bartholomew in the rear booth of an Italian restaurant in Queens.

"You took Sterling’s money to steal my child," Lysander said, his voice flat, rhythmic, and deadly. "You thought that because Clara passed away, her trust was defenseless. You thought you could hand Effie to Elfrida, drain the shipping reserves, and retire to Palm Beach."

"Farrow... listen to me," Cross stammered, his hands shaking so violently he knocked his pen across the desk. "It was Bartholomew! He came to me with Sterling’s lawyers! They said you were losing control of the waterfront unions, that the family was vulnerable—"

"Sign the dismissal," Lysander said, cutting him off.

Cross swallowed hard. "What?"

"The petition. You will open the case file right now, enter an order of summary dismissal with prejudice, and seal the record under state security protocols," Lysander instructed, his baritone leaving no room for negotiation. "Then you will write a letter of resignation to the state judicial ethics board, citing failing health."

"Resign?" Cross gasped, his eyes bulging. "I have seven years left on this bench! You can't ruin my career over an administrative dispute!"

Lysander leaned in closer, his scarred jaw tightening until the muscle bulged. "If you do not sign that dismissal and resign within ten minutes, Viktor will walk across the street and hand those financial records directly to the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. You will not retire to Palm Beach, Harlan. You will die in a federal penitentiary in Otisville."

Cross stared at the blue folder. He looked at Viktor’s stone-faced posture by the door, and then into Lysander’s pitiless eyes.

With trembling fingers, Judge Cross reached into his breast pocket, unscrewed his fountain pen, and pulled the custody file toward his chest.