“Die before Friday, Dominic. The money moves faster when you stop breathing.” My fiancée whispered that into my ear, kissed my forehead, and walked away believing I was trapped inside a coma—but I was awake, listening to every word, and the only person who realized something was wrong was the maid everyone else treated like furniture.

The transition of power at Moretti Global was swift, surgical, and absolute.

By Monday morning, the corporate restructuring was complete. Anthony was safely aboard a flight to Palermo, Italy, where he would spend the next decade contemplating the virtues of honesty while managing grapevines. Senator Thomas Vance was sitting in a federal holding cell awaiting arraignment, his political career reduced to a cautionary tale on morning talk shows. And Veronica Hale was locked in legal battles with a battery of high-priced federal prosecutors who were meticulously tearing apart her offshore shell companies accounts and asset portfolios.

My penthouse on Park Avenue felt entirely different now. The white lilies had been permanently replaced with deep crimson roses—bold, resilient, and smelling of life rather than a funeral home.

I sat behind my massive mahogany executive desk on the forty-fifth floor, reviewing the quarterly financial audit reports. The numbers were strong, the shipping lanes were secure, and the internal rot had been thoroughly excised from the roots up.

A soft, polite knock sounded at my office door.

"Come in," I called out without looking up from the papers.

The door opened smoothly. Grace stepped into the office, no longer wearing her navy custodial smock, but impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal pantsuit that mirrored the quiet authority of her new role. In her hand, she carried a sleek digital tablet containing the morning's security briefs.

"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," she said, her voice crisp and professional.

"Good morning, Grace," I replied, finally looking up from my desk with a genuine smile. "What do we have on the docket for today?"

Grace stepped forward, placing the tablet on the corner of my desk while smoothly sliding a comprehensive risk assessment report across the polished wood.

"Federal investigators just seized Veronica’s remaining Swiss accounts," she reported smoothly, ticking off the items on her fingers. "The board approved our new internal compliance protocols unanimously with zero dissenting votes. And Senator Vance’s defense team has officially filed for a plea bargain, offering to turn over evidence on three other politicians involved in our local zoning scandals."

I leaned back in my leather chair, folding my hands across my chest as I watched her with profound admiration. "Impressive work, Grace. You've been in the director's chair for less than forty-eight hours, and you're already running the department like a seasoned veteran."

"I had a very good teacher," she replied with a subtle, knowing wink. "When you spend two years listening to billionaires make catastrophic mistakes, you learn precisely what not to do."

I let out a low laugh, feeling a deep, unfamiliar sense of peace settle over my chest—pain-free, clear-headed, and completely alive.

"Well," I said, standing up from my desk and buttoning my suit jacket. "Since our morning briefing is ahead of schedule, I think it's time we inspected the new forty-fourth-floor intelligence division. Care to give me a tour of your domain, Director Miller?"