"THE MAFIA BOSS CAME HOME EARLY TO A DARK HOUSE — WHAT HE FOUND A TODDLER DOING TO HIS SHOES BROKE HIM IN SECONDS

Dawn broke over the Chicago skyline, painting the spires and skyscrapers in cold shades of gray and pale gold. Inside the Romano mansion, however, the temperature was much colder.

In the subterranean holding room beneath the estate—a windowless, soundproofed chamber designed for high-stakes interrogations—Julian Vance sat tied to a metal chair. His expensive silk tie was ruined, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and his face bruised from the rough handling by Miller's men.

The heavy steel door clicked open, and Adrien Romano walked in. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the sharp, clean lines of his forearms and the faint scars from old knife wounds. He carried a single manila folder and a steaming cup of black coffee.

Julian flinched as Adrien pulled up a chair and sat down directly opposite him, resting his elbows on his knees.

"A-Adrien," Julian stammered, his voice shaking. "What is this about? You can't just snatch me out of my bed in the middle of the night—"

"Quiet, Julian," Adrien said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He opened the manila folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the metal table. "Look at this."

Julian glanced down. It was an itemized audit of the estate's medical and housing funds, cross-referenced with offshore accounts registered under a shell company in the Cayman Islands—an account bearing Julian's personal signature.

"You've been skimming forty percent of the maintenance budget for the last fourteen months," Adrien said softly, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. "You did it by cutting medical stipends for staff, reducing rations, and letting the worker cottages rot while pocketing the difference. Am I correct?"

Julian swallowed hard, his throat dry. "The... the estate is too big, Adrien. There’s so much money moving through here, I didn't think you'd ever look at the bottom line of the cleaning staff—"

"That's where you made your mistake," Adrien interrupted. "You thought because they were small, because they were invisible, because they didn't carry guns or sit at the negotiating table, that they didn't matter."

Adrien stood up slowly, towering over the cowering manager.

"A three-year-old child was on her knees at midnight in my shoe room, scrubbing my boots with black polish because her mother was dying of pneumonia in a freezing cottage, and your ledgers show that her medical stipend was canceled to buy you a second vacation home in Florida."

Julian opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"You are going to sign over every asset in that offshore account to a newly established trust," Adrien said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "Every cent. It will be placed in an education and medical fund bearing Lily's name, managed directly by Dr. Viktor Vance. Then, Miller is going to drive you to the airport, put you on a one-way flight to South America, and if you ever set foot in North America again, I won't just kill you—I will make sure you spend the rest of your life wishing you had died in this room."