I told Sofia to drive straight to the safe apartment in Fort Lee—the high-rise unit overlooking the river that wasn't registered under the Moretti family trusts or any corporate shell tied to the docks.

When I arrived forty minutes later, Dante stayed in the hallway by the elevators. I knocked once, paused, and knocked twice more.

Sofia opened the door with the chain still latched, peered through the crack, and let me in. The apartment smelled of roasted coffee and the damp wool of her coat draped over the back of a kitchen chair. Emma was sitting at the low glass coffee table, her white bunny backpack on the floor beside her sneakers. She was coloring an elephant with a purple crayon, humming a nursery tune completely detached from the tension in the room.

Sofia led me into the kitchen alcove and handed me the heavy parchment document.

The seal of the Superior Court of New Jersey was embossed in gold at the top. The caption read: *State of New Jersey v. Carlo Moretti, et al.*

"Read paragraph four," Sofia whispered, keeping her back to the living room so Emma wouldn't see her face.

I scanned down the legal boilerplate until the typed font turned specific:

*Pursuant to Rule 3:13, the State requests a videotaped competency and deposition hearing for the minor child, Emma Vance, aged four, regarding observations made on November 14th within the private residence at 14 Crestview Drive, specifically pertaining to the presence of unauthorized substances and the actions of defendant Carlo Moretti prior to the emergency response.*

"They can’t depose a four-year-old in a criminal enterprise trial," I said quietly, handing the paper back. "Carlo’s attorneys filed a motion claiming evidentiary contamination. They’re arguing that my allergic collapse wasn't triggered by Carlo's people, but was an accidental household exposure—and that your testimony was coached."

"I don't care what Carlo's lawyers are arguing," Sofia said. Her eyes were bloodshot, the dark circles underneath deepening with every word. "I took Emma to your house today because you asked to thank her. Because you promised me that preserving the server and handing the footage to the prosecutors would keep us out of the courtroom. You said the camera solved it. You said Carlo would take a plea."

"Carlo was offered fifteen years this morning," I told her. "His defense team rejected it at noon."

"Why?"

"Because someone inside the prosecutor's office leaked the chain-of-custody report," I said. "Carlo's defense found out that during the seven minutes between my collapse and the arrival of the paramedics, the internal camera server in my study experienced a forty-second data interruption."

Sofia went completely still. Her hands stayed frozen on the edge of the kitchen counter.

"A data interruption," she repeated.

"The video cuts off right when Emma runs into the room with her backpack," I said, watching her carefully. "It resumes forty seconds later, when she is already pressing the injector against my thigh. Carlo’s counsel is telling the judge that those forty seconds were deleted to hide someone else tampering with the evidence."

From the living room, Emma’s crayon snapped with a small, sharp pop.

"Mommy?" the little girl called out. "Can I have some apple juice?"

Sofia didn't move immediately. She looked at me, and for the first time since she had walked into my house months ago, her gaze had no warmth in it—only the fierce, desperate armor of a mother who realizes she has stepped into quicksand.

"The video wasn't corrupted by Carlo," Sofia whispered, her voice barely louder than the hum of the refrigerator. "And it wasn't a technical glitch, Alejandro. Nico did something to that server before you ever woke up in the hospital."