The next three hours were quiet and methodical.

In the study, surrounded by leather-bound books and the smell of old paper, the transition began.

Marcus wrote down every contact, every bank account, and every corrupt official in his ledger.

I sat at the massive oak desk, reviewing the pages as he wrote.

My years of managing the restaurant’s inventory and books made the numbers easy to read.

I pointed out three discrepancies in the shipping manifests.

“These are dummy corporations in Indiana,” I said, pointing a finger at the screen.

Lucian looked over my shoulder, his hand resting gently on my chair.

“She’s right,” Lucian said to his accountant. “Freeze those assets immediately.”

By the time the sun began to rise over the rain-washed gardens, the corrupt elements of the syndicate were dismantled.

The police, paid off by Marcus for years, were handed the files on the Chicago hitmen.

The men who had remained loyal to the Draven name stood in the foyer, waiting for instructions.

Lucian went out to the terrace to speak to them, but before he opened the doors, he turned to me.