The white marble table felt unusually cold beneath Dominic’s palms. The small pediatric hospital bracelet bearing the name Rose Reyes lay between his untouched cup of tea and the cream-colored envelope like a physical piece of evidence from a trial he thought he had won years ago

While the girls tore through their boxes and Maria examined the commercial-grade espresso machine with professional reverence, Dominic Ashford stood on the third-floor balcony of an abandoned brick warehouse overlooking the South Boston shipping docks.

The wind off the harbor was biting, but Dominic didn't feel it.

Before him, tied securely to a wooden chair with heavy industrial zip-ties, sat Klaus. The assassin’s face was bruised, his left eye swollen shut, and his breathing came in ragged, panicked gasps.

Two of Dominic’s senior enforcers stood quietly in the background, their arms crossed over their chests.

Dominic walked slowly toward Klaus, the heels of his leather shoes clicking against the concrete floor. He pulled out a slim, gold-plated lighter, flipped the cap open with a sharp clink, and let the small blue flame flicker in the damp air before snapping it shut again.

“Klaus,” Dominic said softly, his voice carrying an eerie, calm serenity. “Do you remember why I didn't kill you three years ago when you tried to take over the north pier?”

Klaus spat a mixture of blood and saliva onto the concrete. “Go to hell, Ashford. You can’t keep me locked up here forever. The federal marshals—what’s left of them—know my name.”

“The federal marshals don't know you’re here,” Dominic replied, his voice dropping an octave. “Because as far as the city of Boston is concerned, you and your little crew packed up your bags last night and caught a one-way freight ship out of state.”

Klaus’s single open eye widened in sudden terror. “You’re... you’re sending me away?”

“I’m giving you a choice,” Dominic said, leaning down until his face was inches from the terrified assassin. “Option one: My men drop you into the freezing waters of the harbor right now, and the crabs finish what your career started. Option two: You take the midnight cargo freighter to South America, and you never, under any circumstances, set foot in Massachusetts again.”

Klaus didn't hesitate for a single second. “South America. I’ll take the boat. Just don't put me in the water.”

Dominic straightened up, slipping his lighter back into his coat pocket. He waved a hand casually toward Victor, who had just stepped out of the freight elevator holding a heavy manila folder.

“Put him on the dawn transport,” Dominic ordered. “And make sure he stays there.”

Victor dragged the trembling assassin away toward the back exit, leaving Dominic standing alone in the massive, echoing warehouse.

Dominic pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed a number he had memorized by heart over the last twenty-four hours.

The phone rang twice before a smooth, melodic voice answered on the other end.

“If you’re calling to ask if I survived my morning shift, the answer is yes,” Elena said, her voice bright and energized, clearly speaking from the hospital breakroom. “And if you’re calling to ask about dinner tonight, the answer is still yes.”

A slow, genuine smile—the kind he hadn't worn in over a decade—spread across Dominic’s face.

“I wasn't calling about dinner,” Dominic said softly.

“Oh?” Elena teased gently. “Then what could the great and terrible Dominic Ashford possibly want with a tired nurse on a Tuesday morning?”

“I just wanted to make sure,” Dominic said, looking out over the harbor where the sunlight was finally burning away the last gray remnants of the winter fog, “that my ledger was officially balanced.”