The little girl arrived at the iron gates of Bellweather Manor during the worst rainstorm Hudson County had seen all autumn.

By midnight, the storm had transformed into a relentless, rhythmic drizzle that shrouded the estate in gray mist.

In the manor’s third-floor nursery, Mila sat at a low cherrywood table that had once belonged to Luca when he was a boy learning his alphabets. In front of her sat a bowl of chicken broth with tiny star-shaped pastina, prepared personally by Mrs. Gable.

Mila ate with methodical, deliberate care, holding the silver spoon with two fingers, never letting it clatter against the porcelain. It was the manner of a child who had learned early that noise brought landlords, and noise brought questions.

Luca sat on a low wooden stool across from her. He was still in his shirtsleeves, his cuffs rolled up, watching every movement of her small throat as she swallowed.

“Mommy said soup is the only food that loves you back when your chest hurts,” Mila remarked, setting the spoon down neatly on the linen napkin Mrs. Gable had provided.

Luca swallowed hard. “Did your chest hurt often, Mila?”

“Only when the radiator made the banging noise and smelled like burnt pennies,” she said. She picked up a small cracker and broke it in half, placing one piece before her stuffed rabbit. “Barnaby is hungry too. He didn't eat on the bus because the driver looked at him mean.”

“Barnaby can have whatever he wants,” Luca said softly. “He can have roast beef. He can have cream.”

“He only likes bread,” Mila corrected him solemnly. “He is a simple rabbit.”

The door opened with a gentle squeak. Dominic entered, carrying a heavy, leather-bound ledger under his arm. The old man had discarded his tie, unbuttoning his high collar, looking more human than Luca had seen him look in twenty years.

Dominic pulled up an armchair, its springs creaking beneath his weight, and sat beside the low table. He placed the heavy book on the floor and looked at his granddaughter.

“Did you finish the broth, little bird?” Dominic asked.

Mila looked down at the empty bowl, then up at Dominic’s silver hair. “Yes, Mr. Snow Rabbit.”

Luca tensed, but Dominic’s eyes crinkled at the corners. A dry, rumbling sound came from the old man’s chest—a laugh so rusty it sounded like an engine turning over after a decade in a barn.

“Mr. Snow Rabbit,” Dominic murmured. “I have been called worse things by men with more guns than you have years.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, heavy silver coin. It was an old silver dollar from 1921, polished until the edge shone like a mirror. He placed it on the table between Mila’s bowl and Barnaby’s cracker.

“What is that for?” Mila asked, her small hand not reaching for it, but hovering with instinctive caution.

“That is for the formula,” Dominic said.

Mila shook her head firmly. “The receipts are for two thousand, four hundred and sixteen dollars and eighty cents. This is only one coin.”

Luca closed his eyes for a second, feeling the raw, sharp pain in his throat flare again. Two thousand four hundred dollars. The cost of a single dinner with three business associates at the private clubs in Manhattan. The price of two bottles of the Barolo Marco had opened without thinking twice an hour ago.

“This coin is a promise,” Dominic told her, pushing it an inch closer. “It is the first coin my father earned when he came through the harbor. He kept it in his boot for forty years. When a Moretti gives you this coin, it means every vault, every ship, and every man who carries our name belongs to you until the debt is paid.”

Mila looked at the coin. Then she looked at Luca.

“Does he belong to me too?” she asked, pointing her small finger at Luca.

Luca leaned forward. He didn't hesitate. “Every hour I have left, Mila. Every single one.”

Mila considered this for a long moment. She picked up the heavy silver dollar. It was large in her tiny palm, cold and thick. She rubbed her thumb over the raised profile of the Lady Liberty, testing its reality, before carefully sliding it into the front pocket of her oversized sweater.

“Mommy said debts have to be closed with a handshake,” she said, offering her small right hand to Dominic.

Dominic took it, his massive, age-spotted hand enveloping her tiny fingers with immense, delicate restraint. “A handshake it is.”

The door to the corridor swung open abruptly.

Marco stood framed in the opening, his tie askew, his face pale and slick with sweat. Behind him, Vanessa’s sharp voice could be heard arguing with Collins on the landing below.

“Dominic,” Marco said, his voice trembling with a dangerous mixture of panic and desperation. “We need to talk about the docks. The men from Brooklyn are already at the freight house in Newark. They’ve heard there’s an issue with the trust. If we don't present Sophie’s signature by dawn, they’re going to seize the container lines.”

Dominic did not let go of Mila’s hand immediately. He held it for one more second, then released it gently.

He stood up, turning toward his brother with an expression that made Marco take a half-step back into the hallway carpet.

“The container lines belong to the family,” Dominic said. “And the family has just found its daughter.”

“She’s four!” Marco shouted, his control snapping completely. “She doesn't know what a bill of lading is! She doesn't know how to run a crew! You’re going to throw thirty years of work into the sea for a girl who doesn't even know her own father’s middle name?”

Luca rose from his stool.