511 I returned a wallet stuffed with cash to Nathaniel Graves—the richest, most feared mafia boss in America—only to be mocked by his receptionist and surrounded by armed guards. But when he spotted the pink eviction notice sticking out of my backpack, his face went deathly pale, and he ordered every entrance sealed.

The Maybach didn't just park; it commanded the street, sliding smoothly over the curbside slush and blocking the entire lane with quiet intimidation.

Before the car had even fully settled into park, Viktor and two other armed guards spilled out of the front doors, their heavy boots crunching onto the icy pavement. They moved with terrifying efficiency, flanking the vehicle and clearing a perimeter around our tenement entrance.

Mr. Henderson stopped mid-sentence, his face turning the color of curdled milk as he watched the luxury vehicle.

Nathaniel pushed his door open and stepped out into the freezing drizzle. He didn't wear a hat or an overcoat to shield himself from the cold; he stood tall in his tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair catching the gray light, radiating an aura of absolute, uncontested dominance.

I scrambled out right behind him, clutching my backpack.

“Mr... Mr. Graves?!” Mr. Henderson squeaked, dropping his clipboard into the slush as he recognized the face that regularly graced the front pages of the Wall Street Journal. He stumbled forward, tripping over his own loafers, bowing his head frantically. “Sir! To what do we owe the honor? We’re just... we’re clearing out some delinquent tenants, nothing that concerns Graves Holdings—”

Nathaniel didn't look at the landlord. He walked straight past him toward the entrance stairs, where our meager belongings—a few cardboard boxes and a broken-legged wooden chair—had already been stacked by the building superintendent.

“Delinquent tenants?” Nathaniel’s voice was dangerously quiet, cutting through the wind like a razor blade. He stopped in front of a box containing my mother’s worn paperback books and my box of colored pencils. He reached down, picked up a frayed stuffed rabbit with one missing ear, and held it in his palm as if it were made of fragile glass.

Mr. Henderson hurried over, sweating profusely despite the freezing air. “Ah, yes, sir! The Miller woman. Three months behind on rent! People like that—no husband, no steady income—they think they can live off the charity of honest landlords! I was just evicting them legally, sir, per standard protocol—”

Bang!

The sound of Viktor’s heavy fist slamming into the brick wall right beside Mr. Henderson’s ear made the landlord shriek and jump backward.

“You don't speak unless Mr. Graves addresses you,” Viktor growled, his voice like grinding stones.

Nathaniel turned around slowly. His gray eyes were entirely devoid of human warmth. He looked at Mr. Henderson the way a scientist looks at a particularly repulsive insect under a microscope.

“Standard protocol?” Nathaniel asked softly, taking a step closer. “You locked a woman and a child out into a December blizzard over twelve hundred dollars?”

“Well—twelve hundred and fifty, plus late fees—” Henderson stammered, raising his hands defensively.

“Viktor,” Nathaniel said without breaking eye contact with the trembling landlord.

“Yes, boss?”

“Buy this building.”

“Already wired the deposit to the municipal registry while we were in the car, sir,” Viktor replied smoothly, pulling a small tablet from his coat. “Graves Holdings is now the sole titleholder of 442 Aldridge Street. Effective five minutes ago.”

Mr. Henderson’s jaw hit the slush. “You... you bought the tenement? But—what about my management contract? What about my property rights?”

“Your property rights were terminated the moment you laid hands on Clara Miller’s belongings,” Nathaniel said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “Viktor, throw him off the property. And audit every single building he manages in the tri-state area. If I find a single unpaid tax or illegal eviction, I want him in a federal penitentiary before dinner.”

“Right away, boss,” Viktor said, grabbing the collar of Henderson’s trench coat and lifting the sputtering, screaming man off his feet as if he weighed nothing.