She Thought I Was Nobody at the Head Table—Then One Signet Ring Made Every Crime Family in the Ballroom Stand.

The iron gates of the Moreau estate in Westchester swung open under the glare of Victor's black sedan headlights. A light drizzle coated the manicured lawns in silver mist as the convoy pulled up to the limestone portico.

Victor stepped out of the vehicle, not waiting for his drivers to open the door. Celeste walked between two guards, her silver gown ruined by rain and mud at the hem, her eyes darting toward the upper windows.

The mansion was completely dark.

"Where are the medical staff?" Victor asked, his voice cutting through the patter of rain. "A dying man requires nurses, doctors, oxygen tanks."

"They... they keep day shifts," Celeste said, her breath fogging in the chill air. "Marcus prefers privacy at night."

Victor didn't buy it. He pushed through the heavy oak double doors. The grand foyer smelled of lemon polish and cold stone—no medicine, no antiseptic, no presence of illness.

Victor drew a heavy silver Beretta from his holster and moved up the curved staircase with silent, predatory grace. Julian followed closely behind, while the guards kept Celeste at the base of the stairs.

Victor reached the master suite at the end of the second-floor gallery and kicked the door open.

The room was pristine. The bed was made with taut linen sheets, hospital corners tucked under the mattress. On the nightstand sat a single glass of water, bone dry, with a layer of dust resting at the bottom.

Marcus Moreau was not there.

Victor turned and walked back to the balcony railing overlooking the foyer. He leaned over, looking down at Celeste.

"He hasn't slept in this bed for weeks," Victor stated.

Celeste dropped her head into her hands. "Victor, please—"

"Julian," Victor called down. "Search the study. Pull the land registry, the safe codes, and the recent telephone logs."

"Already done, Don Bellacorte," Julian said, stepping out of an adjoining office holding an open leather ledger. "Marcus didn't sign the transfer deed from Westchester. The stamp on the notary seal matches an office in the Brooklyn navy yard."

Victor descended the stairs, his eyes pinned on Celeste. He stopped an inch from her face.

"Your father isn't sick," Victor whispered. "He's a hostage. Or a traitor. Which one is it, Celeste?"

Celeste lifted her head, tears streaking her makeup. "Neither. He ran away, Victor! He took eighty million from the Bellacorte accounts the month you vanished, and he's been hiding in the city ever since!"

Victor stared at her, assessing every micro-expression on her face. Her panic was real. Her fear was palpable. But something in her story didn't fit.