"Congratulations, Miss Bennett.

Richard Bennett arrived at the estate at half past nine.

He did not call ahead.

He came through the front gate using the code Vanessa had given him two months ago, drove his own car around to the side entrance, and walked into the house as though he owned a portion of it — which, in his thinking, the engagement had more or less arranged.

Dante was in the main corridor when he arrived.

He had been expecting him.

"Richard."

"We need to finish our conversation from last night." Richard glanced past Dante toward the study.

"Privately."

"We can speak here."

Richard's eyes moved to the left — Margaret was at the far end of the corridor, making a deliberate business of arranging cut flowers in a vase.

She did not look up.

"Dante—"

"Here, or not at all."

Richard adjusted his jacket and lowered his voice anyway, a reflex.

"I've made some calls this morning.

The documentation I showed you last night — copies exist.

In more than one location.

If your relationship with the Carter girl continues and becomes a problem for this family, those copies will reach people who will find them very interesting."

"Which people?"

"Business rivals.

Journalists who cover organized crime.

The kind of people who would enjoy knowing that Dante Moretti has been financially supporting the daughter of a man his own father had removed — and that he hid that support behind a fraudulent charity account."

Dante clasped his hands behind his back.

"You're threatening me."

"I'm describing a situation that benefits no one."

"What do you want?"

"Elena Carter leaves today.

The treatment payments stop.

Vanessa's engagement continues without complication.

In six months, nobody remembers any of this." Richard spread his hands.

"Simple."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I make a phone call before lunch."

Dante nodded slowly, the way a man nods when he has been waiting for exactly this sentence.

"I see." He reached into his jacket.

He removed his phone and placed it face-up on the hallway table between them.

Richard looked at it.

"What are you—"

"That call you were planning to make," Dante said.

"To the journalists covering organized crime.

To my business rivals." He tapped the phone.

"You'll want to reconsider."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a piece of information." Dante's voice remained even.

"Two nights ago, when you were in my study without an invitation, pouring bourbon from my decanter and making decisions about my household — my security team was recording the conversation."

Richard went very still.

"Everything you said about the Carter family.

About Elena.

About the arrangement you were proposing." Dante picked up the phone.

"And this morning, in the last twenty minutes, a member of my legal team submitted a formal inquiry to the New York State business registry regarding the ownership chain of the hotel where Elena Carter was employed.

One phone call confirmed that the theft accusation against her was filed seventy-two hours after she reported internal financial misconduct to hotel management." He looked at Richard.

"Your hotel, Richard.

Your manager.

Your accusation."

"You can't prove—"

"I can.

And I will." Dante slid the phone back into his pocket.

"You came into my house and you used a dead man's history to threaten a woman who has done nothing except survive what you did to her.

You put a photograph in her room to frighten her.

You tried to use my engagement to manage the consequence of your own crjme."

Richard's face had gone the color of old wax.

"Dante.

Be reasonable.

We can—"

"Elena Carter is not leaving this house."

"You would blow up your engagement—"

"My engagement," Dante said, "is a separate matter.

One I will handle myself."

"Vanessa—"

"Is not your instrument." Dante stepped back.

"My security team will escort you out.

A formal legal letter will arrive at your office by end of day.

I strongly recommend you speak with an attorney before responding to it."

Richard stood in the corridor, and for the first time in what was clearly a very long time, he appeared to have nothing to say.

Margaret, at the far end of the hall, set down her flowers and pressed a small button on the intercom by the door.

Two members of Dante's security team appeared from the side passage.

They did not touch Richard.

They simply stood there, patient and large and entirely certain, until Richard Bennett picked up his coat from where he had draped it over the hallway chair and walked toward the door.

At the threshold, he turned.

"This isn't finished."

"Yes," Dante said.