The study was sanctuary and slaughterhouse alike. Heavy mahogany panels absorbed the ambient hum of Boston Harbor outside, while the fireplace cast long, restless amber tongues across leather-bound law books and untraceable shell-company deeds. Perched atop the dark wood of the desk, three-year-old Mia clutched a heavy silver letter opener like a magic wand, her thumb resting on Lorenzo’s heavy gold signet ring as if testing its weight.

"You missed a spot near the baseboard, Elena."

The voice was silk draped over broken glass. Vivien stood at the landing of the grand staircase, clad in a pristine white cashmere robe that trailed behind her like a shroud. Her golden hair was pinned in a loose, effortless chignon, though her eyes were cold, calculating emeralds that tracked Elena’s every tremor.

Elena did not look up immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on her bucket of soapy water, her knuckles white against the grey sponge. "I’ll get it, Miss Vivien."

"See that you do," Vivien purred, descending the stairs with slow, deliberate grace. She stopped two steps above the maid, looking down as if inspecting cattle at an auction. "Lorenzo was unusually quiet at breakfast this morning. He didn't touch his espresso. He didn't look at the financial broadsheets. He just stared at the garden with that dead, flat expression of his. Did you say anything to him last night when you brought Mia down for her milk?"

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped sparrow. She remembered the heavy weight of Lorenzo’s hand on her shoulder in the dark corridor—not a threat, but a barrier of muscle and bone that had shielded her and Mia from Vivien’s wrath before the don retreated to his study.

"I only spoke to the little one, Miss Vivien," Elena whispered, her voice steady by sheer willpower. "She dropped her doll near the conservatory. I was helping her find it."

Vivien stepped down onto the marble, her bare heel clicking sharply against the stone. She stopped inches from Elena’s kneeling form, her slender hand reaching out to tilt the maid’s chin upward with a manicured nail.

"Listen to me very carefully, Elena," Vivien whispered, her breath smelling faintly of peppermint and expensive gin. "Lorenzo is playing a very dangerous game with the New York syndicate. If he gets distracted by domestic nonsense—if he starts believing little fairy tales about maids being harassed or old women being neglected—people get hurt. And when people get hurt in this house, accidents happen during transport. A brake line snaps on a highway. A maid slips on a wet tile and hits her head very, very hard."