Thirty-two weeks pregnant, I stood beside the fireplace at my husband’s family Christmas party while sixty guests filled the Dre estate outside Greenwich,

The journey from Newport to Westchester Medical Center was a nightmare of roaring thunder and flooded highways.

Julian drove with white-knuckled focus, cutting through the deluge along Interstate 95 while on a constant encrypted conference call with Marcus Boyd and our hospital liaison.

"Matthias is stabilized, but barely," Julian told me, hanging up the phone as we crossed the New York state line. "The doctors found traces of a synthetic organophosphate—a nerve toxin that mimics a sudden heart attack. It was administered through his insulin supply in the prison infirmary."

"Alistair has people inside the federal prison," I said, staring through the rain-streaked windshield. "How deep does his network go?"

"Alistair was the architect of the Dre family's international banking channels before Victoria took over," Julian replied, his voice dark. "He doesn't just have money, Elena. He has ledgers. Thirty years of blackmail on judges, senators, and prison wardens. If Matthias dies, the federal case against the remaining Dre shell companies collapses, and Alistair walks into court on Monday as the sole legitimate claimant to the entire dynasty."

When we arrived at Westchester Medical Center, the intensive care wing was locked down under heavy guard by armed federal marshals. We were escorted through two secure checkpoints before entering the private ICU suite.

The sight of Matthias stopped me in my tracks.

The man who had once stood over six feet tall, impeccably groomed, commanding boardrooms with an arrogant tilt of his chin, now lay withered beneath a tangled web of plastic tubing and blinking cardiac monitors. His face was the color of wet chalk, his lips cracked and blue.

As the heavy door clicked shut behind us, Matthias’s eyelids fluttered. He turned his head slowly, his hollow, sunken eyes focusing on me.

"Elena..." he rasped, his voice barely louder than the hiss of the ventilator.

I walked to the edge of the bed, Julian standing sentinel just behind me. I felt no hatred, but I felt no pity either—only the cold clarity of a mother who had come to protect her child.

"Matthias," I said evenly. "Alistair is back."

A violent shudder racked Matthias’s chest. The heart monitor beeped erratically. "I... I knew... he would come," Matthias choked out, reaching a trembling, needle-bruised hand toward me. I did not take it. "He... he was the one... who taught my mother... everything."

"Where are the ledgers, Matthias?" Julian demanded, stepping forward. "The real ledgers. Not the shredded copies we found in the Greenwich safe. If we don't have the proof of Alistair's foreign accounts by Monday morning, the judge will throw out the forfeiture decree."

Matthias closed his eyes, tears of physical agony slipping down his temples. "Victoria... hid them. Not in Greenwich. In the old boathouse... at Blackwood Point. Under the floorboards... beneath the salt-water pump. The key... is inside Maya’s music box... the one Victoria left in her private suite."

"Maya’s music box was seized by the FBI," Julian said.

"No," Matthias gasped, coughing violently as the monitor screamed in alarm. "Victoria... had two. The real key... is hidden inside... the silver rattle. Alistair knows... that’s why... he sent it..."