My husband told me to “stop being dramatic” while I was walking out of the hospital carrying our three-year-old daughter’s ashes.

At seven o'clock the following morning, Maeve was woken by a soft knock on the door of her second-floor guest suite.

When she opened it, three women stepped into the room pushing rolling racks filled with high-end designer clothing, shoes, and jewelry cases, followed by a professional hair and makeup artist.

"What's all this?" Maeve asked, stepping back in surprise.

The lead stylist, an elegant French woman named Helene, offered a polite smile. "Mr. Rossi’s instructions, mademoiselle. You cannot attend a council meeting of regional directors looking like an operative or a servant. You must look like a high-level executive partner from an international firm."

For two hours, Maeve underwent a complete transformation. Her tired, graying brown hair was washed, conditioned, and cut into a sleek, sophisticated collarbone-length bob with warm chocolate highlights. Her face, long worn down by exhaustion and harsh lighting, was softened with subtle, flawless makeup that emphasized her striking silver-gray eyes and high cheekbones.

Helene selected a tailored, deep emerald-green wool suit paired with a silk blouse and dark leather pumps.

When Maeve stepped in front of the full-length mirror, she stopped breathing.

The woman looking back at her didn't look like a night-shift janitor from St. Catherine’s Plaza. She looked powerful, quiet, and formidable—a woman whose silence in a room commanded immediate respect.

Downstairs in the main foyer, Dominic was waiting, wearing a three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit. Beside him stood his brother Anthony, looking pale but healthy, wearing a simple blue suit with no tie.

When the footsteps sounded on the grand staircase, both men turned and looked up.

Anthony’s eyes widened in sheer astonishment. "Holy smoke... is that..."

Dominic didn't say a word. His eyes traveled slowly from Maeve’s dark heels up to her emerald suit, resting finally on her face. A deep, unreadable expression passed through his dark eyes—a mixture of profound respect and something far warmer.

"Maeve," Anthony said, stepping forward as she reached the bottom step and grabbing both of her hands warmly. "I... I don't know how to thank you. Marko told me what you did in that boardroom. If you hadn't translated that Russian slang..."

"You don't owe me anything, Anthony," Maeve said, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. "Just keep holding doors open for people."

Anthony laughed, his eyes shining with genuine gratitude. "For you? I'll carry the whole building."

Dominic stepped beside them, offering Maeve a sleek, black leather folder. "Inside this dossier are the profiles of the four men arriving in Wisconsin today.

"First, Jean-Luc Duval from Montreal—he controls the northern narcotics and transit routes. Second, Matteo Moretti from New York—the oldest boss, traditionally loyal to my father. Third, Karl Vance from Detroit—an arms dealer with heavy ties to Eastern European syndicates. And fourth, your uncle’s replacement representative, Sergio Rossi, who claims he knew nothing about Silvio’s plot."

Maeve opened the folder, her sharp eyes scanning the photos, background notes, and linguistic records within seconds.

"Jean-Luc speaks French and Haitian Creole," Maeve noted aloud, her finger tracing the page. "Karl Vance uses a heavy Bavarian German dialect mixed with Polish maritime slang when he doesn't want local wiretaps to pick him up. And Sergio..." She paused, looking at Sergio Rossi's photograph.

"What about Sergio?" Dominic asked, leaning closer.

"His mother was from a small fishing village in Corsica," Maeve said softly, her eyes narrowing as she recalled a memory from her childhood. "Corsican street dialect uses a very specific set of archaic nautical metaphors for betrayal. If he's involved, he won't use Italian or English. He'll use Corsican."