Sloan’s fingers froze halfway toward the crystal water pitcher when she saw the new server’s hands.

The East Suite was larger than Sloan’s entire apartment. floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a dramatic view of the black river churning hundreds of feet below, illuminated only by the faint light of the moon.

Sloan couldn't sleep. She sat at a grand mahogany desk in the center of the room, surrounded by three high-definition monitors that Marcus had set up for her an hour ago.

The screens played fast-forwarded footage from Aurelio’s security cameras spanning the last thirty days.

"You're looking for anomalies," Marcus’s voice spoke from the doorway. He was standing there with a silver tray holding a cup of chamomile tea. He set it on the desk without making a sound. "Patterns that don't fit."

"I know what I'm looking for," Sloan said quietly, not taking her eyes off the glowing screens. "A hit of that caliber requires insider knowledge. Someone had to give that fake server the shift schedules, the manager’s passcodes, and the layout of the private booths."

"We checked the manager, Theo Crane," Marcus said. "He’s clean. Terrified, but clean. The agency really did send the replacement server. The real server was found tied up in an alley three miles away."

"Then look at the delivery angle," Sloan pointed out, fast-forwarding a clip from two weeks prior. "Look at the back dock. Frame 412."

Marcus leaned over her shoulder, his lone hand resting on the back of her chair.

On the screen, a linen delivery truck was unloading crates. A man in a blue uniform was talking to one of Vance’s primary lieutenants—a heavy-set man named Paulie "The Hammer" Russo.

"Paulie’s been with Dominic for twenty years," Marcus said, shaking his head. "He’s family. He wouldn't sell out the boss."

"I'm not saying he sold him out," Sloan said, zooming in on Paulie’s hands. "Look at his body language. Paulie is right-handed, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then why is he leaning entirely on his right leg, keeping his left side turned forty-five degrees away from that delivery driver? And look at his eyes. He isn't looking at the driver's face. He's looking at the driver's clipboard."

Sloan paused the video and enhanced the contrast.

"Paulie wasn't selling out Dominic," Sloan said, a chill running down her spine. "Paulie was being blackmailed. Look at his left wrist. He’s missing his signet ring in that video. Two days later, it’s back on his hand. Someone took something from him to prove they could reach him, then gave it back after he handed over the security codes."

Marcus stared at the screen, his harsh face hardening into ice. "Jesus Christ. You saw all that from ten seconds of grainy footage?"

"Fear makes people move differently," Sloan said softly. "When you spend your whole life terrified, you learn the posture of a hostage."

Before Marcus could respond, the heavy steel door of the suite burst open.

Dominic Vance walked in, his suit jacket gone, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were covered in dark tattoos—intricate old-world symbols of loyalty and death.

"Marcus," Vance said, his voice flat. "We have a problem."

"What is it?"

"The Syndicate Board just called an emergency meeting at the docks for three in the morning," Vance said. "Paulie called it. He claims he has proof that I am the one who orchestrated the hit on myself to launch a purge against the other captains."

Sloan gasped. "It’s a frame job. They're setting you up for a takeover."

Vance looked at Sloan, his eyes burning with intense curiosity and respect. "Paulie just arrived at the docks. He brought twelve heavily armed men. If I walk into that meeting alone, it's a execution. If I don't show up, I lose my empire."