Sylvie watched in heartbreak as Tavish’s fiancée Benedetta ripped a photograph of the toddler’s missing mother from an album, dropped it into a fountain, and cruelly whispered that it was just another secret and another piece of her mother.

The private elevator rose silently toward the executive suites, its polished brass mirrors reflecting Tavish’s towering frame. In his arms, Sylvie held the small album tightly against her chest, her small flats dangling over his waistcoat.

Beside them stood Nathan, Tavish’s oldest lieutenant and a man who had served his father during the dock wars of 1998. Nathan was inspecting a heavy tactical tablet, his jaw set in a hard, grim line.

"The ballroom is cleared, boss," Nathan reported, his gravelly voice keeping to a low murmur. "The guests were escorted out the side entrance under non-disclosure protocols. Julian’s private security detail was disarmed in the parking garage. No shots fired."

"Did they have weapons on them?" Tavish asked.

"Suppressed automatic pistols and zip-ties in the trunks of their sedans," Nathan said, turning the tablet so Tavish could see the inventory list. "They weren't planning on attending an after-party, Tavish. They were planning an extraction."

Tavish’s thumb brushed against the brass key still taped inside Sylvie’s album. "An extraction of who?"

"We pulled the GPS logs from Julian’s lead vehicle," Nathan said, his eyes darkening. "They had a private medical charter waiting on the tarmac at Teterboro Airport. The tail number traces back to a private sanitarium in northern Maine. The departure time was filed for eleven-thirty tonight."

Sylvie looked up from his shoulder, her big blue eyes blinking. "Daddy? Are we going to see Mommy now?"

Tavish felt a sharp, cold knife twist behind his ribs. He gently stroked his daughter’s golden curls, his voice softening into an intimate, steady cadence that only she ever heard.

"Did Mommy tell you where she was going, Sylvie?"

"She said bad people wanted to put her in a hospital," the child answered, her voice trembling with the memory. "She said they were giving Grandma bad medicine, too. That’s why Grandma went to sleep and didn't wake up."

Nathan exhaled sharply, looking at the ceiling of the elevator car. "Jesus, Tavish..."

Tavish’s face turned into an unreadable slab of granite. "My mother died of heart failure fourteen months ago. That was the official coroner’s report signed by Doctor Mercer."

"Doctor Mercer," Nathan repeated with bitter clarity. "Whose private clinic in Westchester is currently fifty-one percent owned by Vance Holdings."

The elevator chimed, the heavy brass doors sliding open into the private corridor of the Rookfield penthouse. Waiting in the center of the hall, flanked by two armed operatives, were Benedetta and Julian. Benedetta’s emerald dress was torn at the hem, her hair spilling in disheveled clumps around her fair face. Julian was leaning against the wall, clutching his bruised ribs where Marcus had shoved him into a chair.

Tavish handed Sylvie to Nathan. "Take her into the study. Put on a cartoon. Keep two men at the door."

"Understood, boss." Nathan cradled the little girl, stepping down the opposite hallway.

Tavish walked toward the siblings. Every step he took on the hardwood runner sounded like the cocking of a heavy hammer. He stopped three feet from Benedetta, unbuttoning his overcoat and sliding his hands into his pockets.

"You have five minutes to tell me the truth, Benedetta," Tavish said softly. "After that, I let Marcus handle the questions."

Benedetta glared at him, a desperate, hysterical laugh bubbling from her throat. "You think you're untouchable, don't you, Tavish? You think because you run the ports, nobody can touch your family?"