At 2:40 on a Thursday afternoon, I walked into my living room and found six toddlers asleep on colorful mats. None of them belonged to me. I only have one child, a fourteen-year-old daughter, and nobody in my family was supposed to be running a daycare.

"June, stay back!" I screamed, lunging forward, but Julian was already moving with terrifying grace. He didn't grab her or threaten her physically; instead, he crouched down to her eye level with a sickeningly sweet, paternal smile that made my stomach churn. June froze, her eyes wide with confusion as she looked from the strange man in the expensive suit to my panicked, breathless face. "Hello, June," Julian said smoothly, his voice dropping into a warm, conversational register. "I'm an old friend of your father’s. We were just discussing some important family business. Your mom and I were having such a pleasant chat." I threw myself between them, shoving Julian backward with a strength fueled by pure maternal rage. He stumbled slightly, surprised by my ferocity, while I grabbed June by the shoulders and pulled her fiercely behind my back. "Don't you ever look at her. Don't you ever speak to her," I hissed, my voice trembling with adrenaline. June buried her face in my lower back, her small frame shaking. "Mom, who is he? Why does he look so angry?" she whispered. "Go to your room, sweetie. Lock the door and don't come out for anything," I ordered, keeping my eyes locked on Julian, who was slowly straightening his lapels, dusting off an invisible speck of lint. June didn't hesitate; she bolted down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking against the floor before her bedroom door slammed shut and the deadbolt clicked into place. I turned back to Julian, my chest heaving. "You want to talk to me? Let's talk. But if you ever approach my daughter again, I swear to God I will tear your entire network apart, piece by bloody piece, consequences be damned." Julian let out a low, amused chuckle, clapping his hands together twice. "Fierce. I love it. It’s a shame you wasted your talents working in corporate risk management when you have a natural aptitude for organized crime defense." He walked over to the coffee table, picked up his leather folder, and tucked it neatly under his arm. "Here is the reality of your situation, Nora. Your little house on Elmhurst Lane is currently sitting on top of a digital ledger containing every single name, address, and financial wire record belonging to my organization. Mark buried that ledger inside the crawlspace beneath your living room floorboards before the feds raided the house. He thought he was securing his retirement fund. But he forgot one crucial detail: he gave the key to the floor safe to you."