The private study on the third floor of the Hale estate was a fortress of dark wood, leather-bound books, and old blood.

Marcus Vance sat tied securely to a high-backed leather armchair, his expensive Italian suit rumpled, blood trickling from a split lip where Marco had introduced him to the doorframe on his way up. Despite the zip-ties biting into his wrists, Marcus maintained a smug, infuriuriatingly calm expression, leaning back against the leather as if he were waiting for a business report.

Julian stood behind his massive oak desk, pouring a glass of dark amber scotch. He didn't look at Marcus. He simply swirled the liquid in the crystal tumbler, listening to the ice clink against the glass.

“Julian, have you completely lost your mind?” Marcus demanded, testing the zip-ties with a frustrated grunt. “Your men dragged me out of a council meeting in front of our top lieutenants! Do you know what this does to our authority in the city?”

Julian took a slow sip of his scotch, then set the glass down with a sharp clack.

He walked around the desk, stopping just three feet away from Marcus. He didn't yell. He didn't throw punches. He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out Clara’s journal, and dropped it squarely onto Marcus’s lap.

Marcus looked down at the book. The smug color instantly drained from his face, leaving him looking older, hollower, and suddenly very vulnerable.

“Where is she, Marcus?” Julian asked softly.

Marcus swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I... I don't know what this book is, Julian. It looks like garbage. Some nanny's diary—”

Crack.

Julian’s fist connected with Marcus’s jaw with the force of a speeding freight train. The chair tipped backward, crashing hard against the Persian rug, sending Marcus gasping for air as blood pooled in his mouth.

Marco stepped forward, easily hoisting the chair back upright by the shoulders.

Julian crouched down until his eyes were level with Marcus’s terrified gaze. “I didn't ask you to read poetry to me, Marcus. I asked you a very simple question. Where is my daughter?”

Marcus coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor. He realized the game was up. There was no escaping this room. Not tonight.

“She... she’s not in the city,” Marcus wheezed, a bitter, broken laugh escaping his lips. “You think I kept her here? Right under your nose? You're smart, Julian, but you’re arrogant. The rival families wanted you broken. They wanted you so consumed by the loss of your bloodline that you’d hand over the shipping lanes without a fight. So I arranged the transfer.”

“Who?” Julian growled, his fingers gripping the lapels of Marcus’s suit so tightly the fabric tore. “Who took her?”

“Victor Vance,” Marcus whispered, dropping the final bomb.

Julian froze. Victor Vance—the ruthless patriarch of the syndicate across the state line, the very man Julian had been waging a quiet shadow war against for the last three years.

“She’s at his private estate in the Hamptons,” Marcus continued, gasping for breath. “Being raised under a false name, guarded by an army. You can't touch her, Julian. If you storm that property, Victor will put a bullet in her head before your first car even hits the gate.”

Julian slowly stood up. He looked down at Marcus, his face completely devoid of human emotion. He pulled a silver-plated silencer from his desk drawer and screwed it onto the barrel of his sidearm with absolute, mechanical precision.

“You’re right, Marcus,” Julian said quietly. “I probably can't storm the gate without risking her life.”

Marcus let out a sigh of relief, thinking he had bought himself leverage. “So cut a deal with me. Let me go, and I’ll help you negotiate—”

Julian raised the gun, pressed the barrel directly between Marcus’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The muffled thud echoed softly in the study. Marcus slumped forward, lifeless, his secrets finally buried with him.

Julian turned to Marco, who stood at attention by the door, entirely unfazed by the execution.

“Get a cleanup crew in here,” Julian ordered, sliding the gun back into his holster. “And summon the strike team. We’re going to the Hamptons.”