At 3:12 a.m., I decided I was going to murder my upstairs neighbor.

The SUV’s suspension absorbed the potholes of the industrial district as if they were nothing more than painted lines on a highway. I clutched my canvas tote bag until my knuckles ached, my eyes darting between Kalin Kovatch’s impassive profile and the rain-slicked pavement rushing past outside the tinted windows.

"You didn't answer my question," I said, my voice tight with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. "Why were those men watching my car? What does my father have to do with you?"

Kalin didn't look at me immediately. He reached out, tapping a command onto the encrypted tablet resting on his knee, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

"Your father, Daniel Parker, was not merely a small-time speculator," Kalin said, his voice deep and measured. "Before he died two years ago, he brokered a series of high-risk maritime shipping acquisitions. He used Rossi Gallery assets as collateral—without the gallery's knowledge—to secure liquid capital from syndicates operating outside state lines."

My breath hitched. "That's impossible. My father couldn't even balance his own checkbook, let alone broker international shipping deals."

"Desperate men do desperate things when they are drowning in gambling debts," Kalin replied, finally turning his piercing gray eyes toward me. "The men who slashed your tires this morning work for Viktor Vance—a loan shark who bought your father's paper for pennies on the dollar. They believe the collateral—or the value of the missing artifacts your father helped fence—is hidden within the Rossi Gallery's restoration archives. And since you work there, they assume you have the key."

"I clean canvases and fix cracked varnish!" I protested, my voice rising in panic. "I touch up blue skies and seventeenth-century saints! I don't know anything about stolen shipping manifests or mob collateral!"

"They don't care what you know," Kalin said quietly. "They only care what you can access."

The SUV turned sharply, passing through a pair of heavy iron security gates that opened automatically before a sprawling, heavily fortified private estate overlooking the rugged Rhode Island coastline. High stone walls topped with razor wire and security cameras enclosed the property. This wasn't just a penthouse; it was a fortress.