The first thing Elena Rostova learned about the Marchesi family was that nobody mentioned them unless they were already terrified.

The Weston estate was in full lockdown by the time the armored SUV passed through the gates. Armed sentries patrolled the limestone walls with tactical carbines openly displayed; the usual discreet security had been replaced by a visible, militarized show of force.

Once inside, Elena immediately took the twins to the nursery, locking the heavy mahogany doors and drawing the velvet drapes against the afternoon gloom. She spent an hour reading to them, her voice steady and rhythmic, until the adrenaline crash finally pulled both children into an exhausted, deep sleep on the floor cushions.

Only then did she allow herself to tremble.

She walked into her adjoining private bathroom, gripping the edges of the marble sink until her knuckles turned white. Her reflection in the mirror was pale, her dark hair coming undone from its neat bun. She had almost died today. Six-year-old children had almost been executed in a school alleyway because of the man sitting three floors below them.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket.

Elena pulled it out, her stomach dropping as she saw the caller ID: MASS GENERAL - BILLING DEPT.

She answered, pressing the receiver to her ear with a shaking hand. "This is Elena Rostova."

"Miss Rostova, calling regarding patient Clara Rostova," a crisp, administrative voice said over the line. "We are processing the weekly insurance verifications for her dialysis and upcoming kidney transplant residency. Unfortunately, the wire transfer submitted by your account this morning was rejected for insufficient funds."

"What?" Elena gasped, her knees feeling suddenly weak. "That's impossible. I deposited my first month's advance from my employer last Tuesday. Fifteen thousand dollars."

"The funds were held due to a regional banking freeze on the issuing account," the woman explained coldly. "Miss Rostova, if we do not receive a verified cash transfer of twelve thousand dollars by 5:00 PM tomorrow, we will be forced to transition your sister from the priority transplant recipient list back to outpatient outpatient care. We cannot hold the bed without verified collateral."

"No, please, listen to me," Elena begged, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. "My sister will die if she's taken off that list! Give me forty-eight hours. I work for a private family, I can get the cash—"

"Tomorrow by 5:00 PM, Miss Rostova. I'm sorry. System policy."

The line went dead with a hollow click.

Elena dropped the phone onto the marble floor, sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the cold tiles, burying her face in her hands. A regional banking freeze. Why would Julian Marchesi’s accounts be frozen? Unless the rival syndicate hadn't just attacked him physically today—they were attacking his financial infrastructure, tying up his clean accounts to bleed him out.

And Clara was going to be the collateral damage.

She sat in the dark for ten minutes, listening to the quiet, even breathing of the twins in the next room. Pride was a luxury for people whose loved ones weren't dying on hospital mattresses. She wiped her cheeks, stood up, and smoothed her skirt. She had signed a contract to endure terror for money. It was time to collect.

She walked out of the nursery, past the armed guards in the corridor, and made her way toward the forbidden north wing.

She reached the towering double doors of Julian’s private study and didn't bother to knock. She pushed the handle down and stepped inside.

The room was vast, lined with centuries-old books and smelling of expensive scotch and cigar smoke. Julian sat behind a massive desk carved from black walnut. His suit jacket was discarded, his collar unbuttoned, showing the faint white gauze of his healing side wound. Standing opposite him was Marcus, leaning over a map of the city’s shipping ports.