He signed the order to destroy her charity, only to realize the little girl he just saved in the rain was the director's daughter.

Night fell over the Ironbound district like a black velvet curtain dropped over a filthy stage.

At seven PM, Matteo sat at his massive mahogany desk on the top floor of the Caruso Shipping Building, looking out through bulletproof glass at the dark expanse of the Newark bay. The cranes along the docks looked like giant, rusted skeletons against the moonlight.

Caleb stood near the door, a steaming mug of tea in his hand, watching his boss.

"Donnie’s father called three times," Caleb said. "Old Man Moretti isn't happy about you putting his son on his knees in front of a nun."

"Old Man Moretti knows his son is an idiot," Matteo replied without turning around. "He’s more concerned about the harbor terminal. Did Frank clear the title on the Third Street property?"

"Clean as a whistle," Caleb said. "The keys were delivered to Hannah Parker’s house an hour ago by courier. She was hesitant, but Sister Margaret convinced her to start packing the vans. They’re moving the children’s books tonight."

Matteo nodded slowly. "And the guard?"

"I put two of our best guys on Van Buren Street," Caleb reassured him. "Unmarked sedan, rotating four-hour shifts. If Donnie so much as sends a pizza delivery guy to her front porch, I’ll know before the doorbell rings."

A heavy knock sounded at the double office doors.

Frankie "The Pen" Santoro stepped into the room. Frankie was fifty-five, thin as a pencil, with thick glasses resting on his nose and an armful of yellow ledger books. He was the family’s head accountant—a man who knew where every dollar in Northern New Jersey had been buried since 1994.

"You wanted the deep dive on the Parker girl’s ex-husband," Frankie said, setting the ledgers down on Matteo’s desk with a soft thud.

Matteo turned his chair around. "What did you find?"

"Michael Vance wasn't just a small-time bookie runner," Frankie said, leaning over the desk and pointing a pale finger at a column of figures. "He was running fake investment paper for Donnie Moretti’s off-the-books gambling ring down in Monmouth County."

Matteo’s eyes sharpened. "Go on."

"Three years ago, Vance took three hundred thousand dollars from Donnie’s cash pool to cover a lost sports bet in Vegas," Frankie explained. "When Vance couldn't pay, Donnie didn't break his legs. Donnie told him to use his wife’s family house on Van Buren Street as collateral, then forced Vance to forge Hannah Parker’s signature on a second mortgage note."

Matteo’s hand closed into a tight fist against the desk. "The debt Hannah spent four years paying off..."

"Was fake," Frankie said flatly. "Donnie was pocketing her monthly cashier checks—fifteen hundred dollars a month, every month, straight into Donnie’s personal offshore account in the Caymans. She paid off a seventy-thousand-dollar fraudulent lien that Donnie manufactured out of thin air."

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the low whistle of the autumn wind hitting the high glass window.

Caleb set his mug down on the table, his face dark with sudden rage. "That miserable little bastard was bleeding a mother dry while she worked sixty hours a week at a non-profit?"

"That’s not the worst of it," Frankie added quietly. "Michael Vance didn't run away to Florida. Two weeks after he forged his wife's signature, he threatened to go to the District Attorney to clear his conscience. Donnie had him picked up outside a diner in Woodbridge."

"And?" Matteo asked, his voice dripping with venom.

"Vance is at the bottom of the Passaic River," Frankie said simply. "Has been for three years."

Matteo stood up slowly. He adjusted his silk tie, smoothed down his lapels, and looked at Caleb.

"How much did Hannah pay Donnie over those four years?" Matteo asked.

"Totaling interest and illegal fees?" Frankie checked his notebook. "Eighty-eight thousand, four hundred dollars."

"Caleb," Matteo said smoothly, walking toward the coat rack.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Call Donnie’s father back," Matteo said, pulling his heavy overcoat over his shoulders. "Tell him the meeting isn't at the dock office. Tell him to meet me at the old brewery on Third Street in one hour."