Part 2: The maid was hiding her bruises in the mob boss’s bathroom, praying he wouldn’t notice—until he walked in, saw her trembling reflection, and suddenly the entire mansion went silent.

The basement holding cells of the Ashford residence were a relic of old Boston architectural paranoia—soundproofed, reinforced with thick steel bars, and entirely disconnected from the rest of the electrical grid.

Derek Lawson sat on a steel cot in the corner of Cell 3, shivering despite the moderate temperature. The swagger of the corrupt Boston cop had completely evaporated, replaced by the hollow, gibbering panic of a man who had finally stepped off the edge of the world he thought he controlled.

The heavy iron door swung open.

Gabriel Ashford walked in, followed by Marcus carrying a thick leather briefcase. Gabriel didn't look like a mob boss tonight; he looked like an executioner attending to administrative details.

"Ashford—listen, man, we can make a deal," Derek stammered, scrambling off the cot and rushing toward the bars. "I have contacts in internal affairs. I can feed you tips on federal raids—just let me walk out of here. My department is going to notice I’m missing—"

"Your department already filed your resignation two hours ago, Detective," Gabriel said smoothly, stopping two feet from the cell door. He motioned to Marcus, who flipped open the leather briefcase on a metal table, revealing a stack of federal financial audit reports, bank routing numbers, and signed depositions.

Derek stared at the papers, his face turning the color of skim milk. "Where... how did you get those?"

"You've been skimming drug seizure money from Precinct 12 for four years, Derek," Gabriel said, his voice dangerously quiet. "You thought you were clever, hiding your offshore accounts under your mother’s maiden name. But in Boston, money talks to me before it talks to the bank."

"You're going to kill me," Derek whispered, the reality finally sinking into his bones.

"Kill you?" Gabriel let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "That would be a kindness. No, Derek. You're going to federal prison for twenty-five years without parole. And every single inmate in that facility is going to know you spent your career wearing a badge while beating women in the dark."

Gabriel turned his back on him, walking toward the exit.

"Wait!" Derek screamed, slamming his fists against the iron bars. "Why are you doing this for her? She’s just a maid! A nobody from Dorchester! What is she to you?!"