In the corner of the sprawling mahogany study, right beside floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing rare first editions and ledgers detailing millions of dollars in illegal imports, sat a small pink plastic toddler table. Scattered around it were twenty-four Crayola crayons, a half-eaten box of animal crackers, and a plush stuffed bunny named Barnaby.

Vincent Castalano, a man who controlled dockworkers, corrupt judges, and international cartels with a single phone call, was currently holding a royal purple crayon between his thumb and forefinger, examining it with the intense concentration usually reserved for ballistic reports.

“Are you sure this is a dinoNextr, Elena?” Vincent asked, his deep voice carrying a tone of deep skepticism as he held up a piece of construction paper covered in erratic, violet scribbles.

I didn't look up from my laptop, where I was reconciling a complex shipping manifest for the port authority. “According to Mia, that is a TyrannoNextrus Rex wearing a top hat.”

“A T-Rex in a top hat,” Vincent repeated deadpan, shaking his head. He turned his gaze to the little artist sitting cross-legged on his plush rug. Mia nodded enthusiastically, her mouth full of crackers.

The door creaked open, and Renzo stepped in, freezing instantly at the sight of his boss holding a children's drawing.