The rain was still hammering against the frosted glass windows of L’Ancora, a cozy, candle-lit Italian bistro tucked into a quiet brick alley of Beacon Hill. The ambient noise of soft jazz, clinking silver, and the murmur of couples surrounded us, creating an illusion of warm safety that felt miles away from the cold marble and silenced pistols of the Mercer building.

Across the small table, Simon smiled. He was thirty-four, wore an unironed tweed jacket over a dark sweater, and had the earnest, open eyes of a man who spent his days trying to explain the French Revolution to uninterested teenagers. He was charming, attentive, and completely transparent—everything Dominic Mercer was not.

“So,” Simon said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the white tablecloth, “if I’m understanding forensic accounting correctly, you basically spend all day looking at spreadsheets until someone’s numbers don’t add up?”

“That’s the romanticized version,” I said, offering a small, practiced smile. I reached for my napkin, adjusting my posture. I was wearing the navy silk dress Dominic had mentioned. It felt softer than I remembered, hugging my waist before flowing down past my knees. Every time the silk shifted against my skin, I felt a betraying sting of memory—Dominic’s low, rough voice echoing in my mind: It suits you.

“Well, it sounds impressive to me,” Simon said warmly. He reached for his water glass, then gestured to the waiter hovering near the archway. “Let’s order a bottle of wine. Something good. We’re celebrating a successful week.”

The waiter, a thin man in a immaculate black vest with sharp, watchful eyes, stepped over instantly. “Good evening, sir, madam. Tonight’s sommelier recommendation is a rare vintage from a small private estate in Piedmont. It is not listed on our main menu.”

Simon looked pleased. “Sounds perfect. What is it?”

“A 2012 Barolo,” the waiter replied, his voice unnervingly smooth. He produced a dark, dust-dusted bottle from a wooden crate beside the station and presented it to our table.

Simon took the bottle, inspecting the heavy glass. “Looks impressive. Norah, what do you think?”

I glanced down at the label.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it froze completely in my chest.

The label was printed on heavy, off-white paper with deckled edges. At the center was an intricate gold crest—a heraldic lion holding a broken key. Beneath the crest, embossed in fine black lettering, was the estate name: Castello di Valterra.

And at the very bottom, in tiny, raised gold foil numbers, was a tracking code: M-04-12-88.

I knew that code. I had logged that exact tracking sequence three weeks ago in the private ledger Dominic kept locked inside his wall safe. It was a private private-reserve batch, produced by an estate secretly owned by the Mercer family—a vintage that was never sold to the public, never distributed to commercial restaurants, and served exclusively at Dominic’s private estates or gifted to high-ranking syndicate allies.

My breath hitched. My thumb brushed over the raised gold numbers.

“Norah?” Simon asked, frowning slightly as he noticed my sudden stillness. “Is something wrong? We can pick a different one if you don’t like Nebbiolo.”

“Where… where did you get this bottle?” I asked, looking up directly at the waiter. My voice was tight, barely above a whisper.

The waiter’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “It was sent over, madam.”

“Sent over?” Simon blinked, looking around the half-empty restaurant. “By who?”

“A gentleman at the corner table near the rear exit,” the waiter said calmly, turning his gaze toward the shadows at the back of the dining room. “He settled your entire bill five minutes ago. He asked that this specific vintage be opened for your table.”

I turned my head slowly, my pulse racing like a trapped bird.

Sitting alone at a small round table in the darkest corner of the restaurant was a man in a dark trench coat. He was not Dominic. It was Thomas Vale—Dominic’s chief enforcer, a man whose hands had ended more union disputes than city arbitrators ever could.

Thomas held a small glass of sparkling water. When his eyes met mine, he did not look away. He simply lifted his glass in a silent, icy toast, then set it back down.

He wasn’t hiding. He wanted me to see him. He wanted me to know that every word Simon spoke, every smile I gave, and every drop of wine poured into my glass was being recorded, logged, and reported back to the forty-second floor.

“Who is that guy?” Simon asked, his tone turning cautious as he noticed the tension radiating off me. “Norah, do you know him?”