The inside of the car carried the scent of polished leather, cedarwood, costly cologne, and a sterile kind of cleanliness that felt almost unreal after the nightmare Elena had just escaped.

Beyond the tinted windows, the world smeared into streaks of gray and black. Rain struck the reinforced glass relentlessly, as though the storm itself was trying to break in.

Inside the vehicle, only two things existed: the low, powerful purr of the twelve-cylinder engine and the intimidating presence of the man seated beside her.

Matthew Carranza did not turn toward her. His eyes remained fixed on the road, his profile outlined by the dashboard’s dim blue light. Everything about him seemed carved from something unyielding—his sharp jaw, rain-darkened hair swept back from his face, and eyes that carried the cold authority of a man used to commanding empires.

Without a word, he picked up a slim black satellite phone. He didn’t bother dialing. One press of a speed-dial button was enough.

“Marcus,” Matthew said, his voice low but heavy enough to make the air inside the car feel tighter. “Route 9 and Blackwood Lane. A woman is standing in the road. Patricia Salgado. She’s holding a leather belt. Remove her from the scene. If she tries calling the police, remind her about the pending audit on her logistics company. If she contacts Becerra, tell him he has twenty-four hours to liquidate his assets before I liquidate him.”