Nobody in that penthouse deletes a single file, makes a single call, or moves a single dollar without us watching.

We don’t touch them. We bury them in their own evidence.”

I stepped forward from the shadows of the bookshelves, transitioning instantly from a grieving mother into the strategic anchor of his tactical storm.

We’d done this dance before, decades ago. “My forensic team is already pulling their public records and their offshore dummy corporations,” I said, handing Silas an encrypted tablet.

“I want to know exactly where they bleed financially. And I want the medical documentation, the hotel footage, and Lily’s statement in a sealed evidentiary package before dawn—the kind no defense attorney on earth can wave away.

We don’t just ruin them, Dominic. We hand the prosecutors a case so clean it convicts itself.” Dominic met my eyes, a silent pact sealing between us in the dim light of the library.

The domestic horror of a ruined wedding had just shifted into something colder and far more precise. Meanwhile, back at the Grand Plaza, Preston finally checked the gold Rolex on his wrist.