Fleur stood frozen as her aunt Ottilia stripped away her paper crown, draped a lace mourning veil over her face, and cruelly sneered that she should practice crying because her daddy’s funeral was next.

Edric walked over to the leather sofa in the corner of the office, gently laying the sleeping Fleur down on the cushions. He pulled a soft cashmere throw from the back of the couch and tucked it around her shoulders, making sure her little flats were free.

He stood up, walking back to the desk. "What did Lucian say, Marcus?"

"He said the contract didn't originate with him," Cole answered, sliding the tablet across the mahogany. "He said he was approached three weeks ago by a intermediary representing the Moretti syndicate in Chicago."

Edric’s jaw tightened. "The Morettis don't have the reach to hit me in my own country club."

"They do if they have help from the inside," Cole said. "Lucian claimed Ottilia wasn't the only one who signed off on the transfer. There was a third signature on the probate petition."

"Whose?"

"Your late wife's brother," Cole said. "Julian."

Edric’s gray eyes narrowed to freezing slits. "Julian died in a boating accident off Lake Michigan four years ago. I attended the memorial service."

"His body was never recovered, Edric," Cole reminded him quietly. "And according to the federal financial manifests we pulled from Lucian’s briefcase, Julian’s offshore accounts in Panama have been active for six months. He’s the one who funded the C-4 shipment through the Virginia depot."

Edric stood motionless, the gold signet ring on his pinky catching the green light of the desk lamp. "Julian blamed me for Clara’s death."

"Everyone knows that," Cole said. "He believed you got his sister killed during the port wars in fourteen. If he’s back, he isn't after your shipping terminals, Edric. He’s after Fleur. He believes the child belongs to his family, not yours."

A soft, sharp knock sounded on the heavy office door.

"Enter," Edric commanded.

Silas stepped inside, his dark suit jacket unbuttoned, his face grim. "Mr. Whitburn. The bomb squad just finished dismantling the assembly beneath the town car."

"And?" Edric asked.

"It wasn't standard C-4, sir," Silas said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. "It was a military-grade thermite charge wired to a secondary cellular relay. Tommy didn't have the only detonator."

Edric looked at him sharply. "Who held the secondary?"

"The signal was pinging a tower three blocks away," Silas said. "From the parking structure overlooking the club's main entrance. By the time our scouts reached the roof, the vehicle was gone. But they left something behind on the parapet."

Silas reached into his pocket and placed an object onto the desk.

It was a small, silver baby rattle, engraved with the initials F.W.—the exact rattle Clara had bought for Fleur on the day she was born, an heirloom that had disappeared from the family townhouse six months ago.