They put handcuffs on her mother in front of the child anyway.

The conservatory smelled of damp soil, winter jasmine, and old money. Through the glass ceiling, the pale moonlight cast sharp, geometric shadows across the mosaic floor.

Thomas Vance sat in a velvet armchair, his posture upright and dignified. He wore his customary black vest and crisp white shirt, his silver hair neatly combed back. There were no handcuffs on him. Marco and two armed guards stood near the door, their hands resting loosely near their holsters, looking like statues carved from tension.

When Aleandro walked in, Thomas didn’t flinch. He simply turned his head, offering a warm, slightly tired smile that had comforted three generations of Morettis.

“Ah, Aleandro,” Thomas said, his voice smooth and steady. “I heard there was quite a commotion in the staff wing. Is everything alright? Do you need me to have the kitchen prepare a soothing chamomile tea for your stomach?”

Aleandro didn't answer right away. He walked slowly around the velvet armchair, his heavy loafers clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. He stopped right beside Thomas’s shoulder, looking down at the old man's wrinkled hands.

On Thomas’s right ring finger sat a heavy gold band inset with a deep, dark emerald.

The green stone Emma had described.

“You’ve been with us a long time, Thomas,” Aleandro said, his voice dangerously low. “Four decades. You saw my father through his rise and fall. You watched me grow from a reckless boy into a man who carries the weight of this syndicate.”

“Forty-two years, to be exact,” Thomas replied smoothly, his eyes meeting Aleandro’s without a flicker of hesitation. “And I have served this family with absolute loyalty every single day of my life.”

“Loyalty,” Aleandro echoed, tasting the word. He suddenly reached out, gripped Thomas by the collar of his vest, and hauled the old man out of the chair with terrifying strength, slamming him against the cold glass pane of the conservatory wall.

The guards twitched, but Marco held up a hand to stop them.

Thomas gasped, his hat falling off his head, but his expression didn't break into panic. Instead, a strange, weary resignation flickered in his eyes.

“The girl saw you,” Aleandro whispered, his face inches from the old man's. “In the pantry. Putting the white powder into the silver pitcher before Sophia brought the tray up to my study.”

Silence hung in the conservatory, heavy and suffocating.

For a long moment, Thomas didn’t deny it. The gentle, grandfatherly facade melted away, replaced by something cold, ancient, and deeply bitter.

“That child,” Thomas muttered, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “Smart little thing. I told her to hide. I suppose youth is wasted on the observant.”

Aleandro’s grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Why? Who bought you? Was it the Russian syndicate? The Chicago families? Name them, Thomas, and I will grant you a clean death.”

Thomas tilted his head back, looking up through the glass roof at the indifferent stars.

“You think this is about money, Aleandro? You think some rival boss wired three hundred thousand dollars to a penniless maid’s account and bought me out?” Thomas laughed softly, a dry, rasping sound. “Money is a tool for fools. I don't care about the Russians, and I certainly don't care about Chicago.”

“Then why?” Aleandro demanded, shaking the old man. “Why frame Sophia? Why try to kill me?”

“Because,” Thomas said, his voice suddenly cutting through the room like a razor blade, “the Moretti line needed to end. And you needed to feel the exact same betrayal your father inflicted upon everyone who trusted him.”

Aleandro’s breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”

“Ask your blood, Aleandro,” Thomas whispered, his eyes locking onto the boss with a chilling intensity. “Ask the man whose name you carry in your veins. Because the poison in your cup wasn't the only thing brewing tonight. The real secret is walking through your front gates right now.”

Before Aleandro could demand an answer, the heavy double doors of the conservatory burst open.

Marco’s second-in-command rushed in, panting heavily, holding a encrypted tablet in his hand.

“Boss! We have a breach at the perimeter gates. A vehicle just forced its way past the checkpoint.”

Aleandro let go of Thomas, shoving the old man back into the velvet chair. He turned to the guard, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Who is it? Hit squad?”

“No, sir,” the guard swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “It’s your uncle. Victor Moretti. And he brought federal marshals and a warrant for your arrest—backed by financial records proving you embezzled syndicate funds using Sophia Carter’s bank account.”

Aleandro stood frozen.