Chapter 4

The Oakhaven Iron Docks were a maze of rusted shipping containers, screaming cranes, and freezing salt spray. This was where the glittering wealth of Solaria met the grease and blood of Veridia’s underbelly.

Alistair stepped out of his armored sedan, his heavy cashmere overcoat black against the gray fog. Two bodyguards flanked him, but they stepped back when a broad, scarred man in a leather jacket emerged from the shadow of a warehouse.

Valentin Rossano looked less like a corporate ally and more like the wolf he was. As the underboss of the Rossano Syndicate, his family controlled every crate that cleared the Veridian customs gate.

"You're late, Thorne," Valentin said, tossing a half-smoked cigarette into the black water of the harbor. "The port authority is getting twitchy about the cargo from Genoa. Julian’s people have been sniffing around the manifests."

"Julian is desperate," Alistair said, walking alongside Valentin toward the edge of the pier. "He knows the board vote is coming up. He's looking for any leverage to prove Thorne Global is mixing shipping lines with syndicate business."

Valentin let out a low, rough laugh. "Thorne Global is built on syndicate business, Alistair. Your grandfather knew that. That’s why he locked the voting shares behind a bloodline clause. He didn't want your step-mother's family giving the keys of the harbor to a foreign cartel."

Valentin stopped, looking sideways at Alistair. "How is the little bird from Oakhaven? Is she playing her part?"

"She’s compliant," Alistair said flatly, though a sudden, brief memory of Evelyn’s raw, sincere gaze from the night before flashed in his mind. He pushed it down. "Harrison says the timeline is secure. We’ll have the heir locked down before the winter audit."

"Good. Because Julian isn't just playing in the boardroom anymore," Valentin warned, his voice dropping into a serious, dangerous tone. "My scouts found two freelancers from the southern border setting up a safehouse near Oakhaven. They aren't corporate spies, Alistair. They're cleaners. If Julian realizes your wife is the key to your shares, he won't try to buy her off. He’ll eliminate her."

Alistair’s jaw tightened. A cold, defensive instinct flared in his chest—a feeling that felt dangerously unprofessional. "My estate has military-grade security. She doesn't leave the penthouse without an escort."

"Just make sure she doesn't get smart," Valentin said, clapping a heavy hand on Alistair’s shoulder. "A desperate woman from the slums is capable of a lot more than your lawyers think. Don't let the pretty face make you soft."

"I don't get soft, Valentin," Alistair muttered, turning back toward his car. "She knows exactly what her father's life costs."

But as the sedan rolled away from the docks, Alistair found himself staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the live security feed of the penthouse. He clicked it open. The camera in the main living room showed Evelyn sitting quietly on the sofa, a medical journal open on her lap, her posture perfectly still and obedient.

He closed the app, satisfied. The variable was controlled.

He didn't know that the video feed he was watching was an eight-minute loop, engineered and injected into his encrypted server by a proxy network operating out of a basement three miles away.