The mansion loomed ahead like something out of a gothic novel—all iron gates and old money, the kind of place that had watched generations of blood and power change hands without blinking. Stone and glass and history. The kind of history that wasn't taught in schools. The kind that was buried in basements and backrooms and the bottom of the Hudson River.
Coy barely had the car in park before Norah's door flew open.
"Hey—"
But she was already out. Moving. Heels clicking rapid-fire against the stone driveway like gunshots, each step sharp and angry and purposeful. She took the front steps two at a time—impressive in heels, he'd give her that—and the massive front door opened before she even reached it. Facial recognition, probably. Or someone watching cameras. Either way, money and technology doing what they did best: making life seamless for people who could afford seamless lives.
She disappeared inside without looking back.
"Hanrot!" Her voice echoed from within, bouncing off marble and expensive artwork and the kind of acoustics that only came with ceilings three stories high. "Hanrot!"
Coy killed the engine. Sat there for three seconds in the sudden silence. The car ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. New York never stopped making noise. Never stopped moving. Never stopped being exactly what it was: beautiful and brutal and indifferent to everything except survival.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Popped the trunk. Got out.
The evening air hit him—cool, carrying the smell of money. That particular scent of expensive landscaping and clean streets and neighborhoods where the police actually showed up when you called. He grabbed both suitcases from the trunk. They were heavier than they looked. Whatever she'd packed, she'd packed a lot of it.
He made it to the entrance just as her second shout rang out from somewhere deep in the house.
"Dad!"
The mansion's front door was still open. Waiting. Inviting him into a world he didn't quite belong to but would have to navigate anyway. Story of his life, really.
Coy stepped inside.
The foyer was exactly what he'd expected and somehow still managed to be intimidating. Marble floors that probably cost more per square foot than most apartments. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling that looked like it required its own insurance policy—crystal and gold, catching the light and throwing it around like it owned the place. Which, technically, it did. Artwork on the walls that Coy didn't recognize but instinctively knew was expensive. The kind of expensive where you didn't ask the price because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.
Norah stood in the center of it all, backlit by the chandelier, fists clenched at her sides. She was staring down a hallway that stretched into the depths of the house. Her jaw was tight. Her spine was rigid. Every muscle in her body screamed fury barely contained.
She looked like a bomb thirty seconds from detonation.
Coy set the luggage down quietly. The suitcases made soft sounds against the marble—expensive leather meeting expensive stone. He moved past her, heading toward the voices he could hear drifting from deeper in the house.
"Maybe try knocking," he muttered as he passed.
She ignored him completely. Didn't even glance his way. Her attention was laser-focused on whatever confrontation she was about to start.
The voices grew clearer as Coy followed them down the hallway. Hanrot's low rumble, authoritative even when he was being conversational. Other voices responding—male, professional, the tone of people who were being paid well to agree with whatever Hanrot said.
Business. Always business with men like Hanrot. The kind of business that happened in private studies with expensive scotch and implied threats.
Coy reached a set of double doors. Dark wood. Heavy. Slightly ajar.
Through the gap, he could see Hanrot standing by a bar cart—crystal decanters, cut glass, the kind of setup that existed purely for display. Two men in expensive suits were seated in leather chairs across from him. One was older, maybe sixty, silver hair and the kind of tan that came from country clubs and winter homes in Florida. The other was younger, thirties, trying hard to look like he belonged in rooms like this.
They were discussing something. Numbers, probably. Money. Territory. Whatever it was that men like Hanrot discussed when they weren't pretending to be legitimate businessmen.
Norah shoved past Coy hard enough that he had to catch himself against the doorframe. She didn't apologize. Didn't acknowledge him. Just pushed the doors open wide—both of them, dramatic and angry—and stepped into her father's study like she was walking onto a battlefield.
"We need to talk," she said, and her voice was ice. "Now."
The two men looked up, startled. Business types always looked startled when the family showed up unannounced. Like they'd forgotten that the people funding their lifestyles actually existed outside of quarterly reports.
Hanrot's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker. He'd probably heard her coming from the moment the car pulled into the driveway. Had probably been counting down the seconds until this exact moment.
He set down his glass with deliberate care. Crystal against mahogany. The sound was soft but final.
"Gentlemen," Hanrot said smoothly, and his voice carried that particular quality that rich men had when they were being polite but weren't actually asking. "I apologize. Family emergency. We'll continue this tomorrow."
"Of course, Mr. Hanrot." The older man stood immediately, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. The younger one followed, fumbling slightly. Both men nodded to Norah as they passed—polite, deferential, the kind of respect you showed to the boss's daughter even when she was clearly about to tear into him.
Norah didn't acknowledge them. Her eyes were locked on her father like she was trying to bore holes through his skull with sheer force of will.
Coy stepped aside to let the men pass. They moved quickly, quietly, like they were grateful for the excuse to leave. The older one gave Coy a brief nod—professional recognition, one security guy to another. Coy nodded back.
Then they were gone. Footsteps retreating down the hallway. The front door opening and closing. Silence settling over the house like a held breath.
Coy moved to close the double doors.
"Not you," Norah snapped without looking at him. "You stay."
Coy paused, hand on the door, and glanced at Hanrot. This was his house. His call.
The older man nodded once. Short. Sharp. "Stay."
So Coy stayed. He closed the doors quietly, moved to the side of the room, and leaned against the wall near the entrance. Arms crossed. Watching. The way he'd been trained to watch—present but not intrusive, ready but not aggressive. A shadow with a pulse.
The moment the doors clicked shut, Norah exploded.
"Are you insane?"