Ava crossed the room, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum with the sharp, rhythmic precision of a ticking clock. She stopped inches from Grace, her gaze narrowing as she inspected the housekeeper, searching for a tremor, a mistake, a flicker of deceit.

“One of them?” Dominic repeated, the rain slicking the dark fabric of his overcoat as he stood over the two men groaning in the mud. He didn’t look like a hero; he looked like a storm that had finally decided where to strike.

Damon traced the line of the drawing with a finger that had held the power of life and death over half of Chicago. The silence in the room stretched until it felt like a wire pulled to its breaking point.

The air that rushed out was sterile and cold, smelling of ozone and high-end machinery, a violent contrast to the rotted wood and mold upstairs.

“Something strong,” Nathan said before I could speak. “Actually, just bring the bottle. The vintage we discussed.”