"At 12:14 a.m., my housekeeper’s three-year-old daughter climbed into my bed and announced she could do what doctors failed to do for three years: make me sleep. But just as my eyes began to close, the fearless little girl whispered a description of the person who visited my room whenever I 'almost slept'—and pointed straight to someone in my own family."

For four days, I had played my part to absolute perfection. I arrived at the office looking suitably exhausted, rubbing my temples during strategy briefings, staring blankly at spreadsheets as if my cognitive faculties were finally crumbling under the weight of chronic insomnia.

Dante Moretti had practically radiated predatory glee. Every time he passed my office, he stopped to offer a sympathetic smile, inquiring about my health, pressing me to delegate my authority over the upcoming shipping merger to his capable hands.

“You look like you haven't slept in a week, cousin,” Dante said smoothly on Thursday night, leaning against the doorframe of my corner office. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit, his silver cufflinks gleaming under the recessed lighting, and—just as Lily had described—he smelled faintly of crisp, artificial peppermint.

I looked up from my desk, my eyes bloodshot and my voice intentionally raspy.

“It’s the insomnia, Dante. The doctors are baffled. My mind feels like static.”

Dante’s eyes flickered with a triumphant light that he masked with a practiced sigh of concern. “You know, Lorenzo... nobody would blame you if you stepped down as CEO. Health comes first. The family needs stability, and if you can’t carry the torch, I’m more than willing to take over the primary voting shares.”

“The board meeting is tomorrow morning at nine,” I muttered, leaning back in my leather chair as if the motion required immense effort. “We’ll vote on the merger then. If my head is still clearing, maybe we’ll talk about a leave of absence.”

“Take your time, cousin,” Dante murmured, patting my shoulder with a hand that felt uncomfortably like a snake wrapping around a branch. “Get some sleep tonight. I’ll make sure Mrs. Ricci sends up a fresh cup of your calming tea.”

“Thank you, Dante,” I whispered.

As he turned and walked down the executive hallway, his expensive Italian leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the marble floor, I watched him go with eyes entirely devoid of fatigue.

The razor-sharp clarity of a completely clean nervous system pulsed through my veins. Evelyn’s placebo tea had allowed me to sleep a full eight hours for the first time in three years. My reflexes were lightning-fast; my mind was a steel trap.

I picked up my secure desk phone and dialed Salvatore.

“Sal, is the trap set?”

“Everything is locked down, Boss,” Salvatore reported from the security control room downstairs. “The digital forensic team cloned Dante’s office terminal. Not only did we find the purchase orders for the belladonna and scopolamine compounds routed through a shell company in the Caymans, but we also intercepted his encrypted emails with our primary corporate rival, Viktor Vance. Dante was planning to sell our shipping lanes to Vance right after the merger vote.”

“High treason,” I said quietly. “Even by Moretti standards, selling out the syndicate to an outsider is a death sentence.”

“What do you want to do with the evidence?”

“Bring it to the boardroom tomorrow morning, Sal. Put copies of every financial transfer, every encrypted email, and Dr. Vance’s toxicological breakdown at every single seat on the board table.”