The next morning, clouds were pressing low over Sydney like a held breath. Connor didn’t sleep. He’d stayed at his desk until dawn, mapping the web Dundarra had spun, the connections branching from Carver’s signature to a network of dummy accounts and falsified authorizations. When he finally stood, his neck ached and his eyes burned, but the fire in his chest burned hotter.By seven, he was already dressed—black shirt, sleeves rolled, sharp as a blade. Kirra stirred on the sofa, bleary-eyed.“Did you sleep at all?” she murmured.“Later.” He grabbed his jacket. “We’re going to the bank.”Her brow furrowed. “Connor—”He paused by the door, eyes hard but calm. “They want to treat us like we don’t exist? Fine. Today, they’ll remember exactly who we are.”*****The Parramatta branch of Altesse Bank stood glass and chrome, all sterile polish and corporate arrogance. The receptionist blinked when Connor gave his name. Within minutes, whispers moved through the building like electricity. The

The docks slept under a low ceiling of fog, their silhouettes jagged against the glitter of the harbor lights. Beyond the shipping cranes and stacked cargo containers, a single warehouse glowed faintly, too alert for a midnight shipment.Connor crouched behind a shipping crate, eyes narrowed at the steady rhythm of the patrolling guards. The air smelled of oil, sea salt, and the darker smell of anticipation. Warner knelt beside him, checking his silencer, while Reeve scanned the perimeter through the thermal scope.“Four guards at the main gate,” Reeve murmured. “Another two on rotation near the loading bay. The trucks are ready, engines running cold.”Connor studied the pattern for a moment, his mind already clicking through possibilities. “No uniform insignia,” he noted. “Private security. Dundarra’s men.”Warner gave a low whistle. “So the bastard really is moving the money offshore. I thought he’d wait until morning.”Connor smirked faintly, the expression not quite reaching his e

The night bled into a gray morning as Connor, Kirra, and Warner sped along the deserted highway leading to the private airstrip. The storm from the night before had left a sheen of moisture on the tarmac, glistening under the weak dawn light. Connor’s jaw was locked, eyes fixed ahead, every muscle in his body strung tight. The wound at his side still burned from the warehouse fight, but he didn’t let it show.Warner’s voice broke the silence. “Signal confirms it, Callan’s jet is prepping for takeoff. He has got at least six armed escorts.”Connor’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “Then we make it quick. No speeches. No mess.”Kirra sat in the back, a laptop open on her knees, screens glowing with lines of code and bank alerts. “He’s trying to move the last of Dundarra’s crypto reserves to offshore vaults,” she said, voice calm despite the tension. “But the transfers are bouncing. He doesn’t know they’ve been frozen.”Connor glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Good. Let

Weeks had passed since the public downfall of Dundarra, and the city felt different. The hum of traffic, the distant sirens, even the chatter of cafés carried a lighter weight, as if some invisible pressure had been lifted. For Kirra, mornings now began with clean light filtering through her office windows instead of the relentless glare of scandal. Investors were returning, tentative but hopeful, and her reputation was slowly, painstakingly repaired.Connor moved in tandem with the change, though more quietly. The last of Dundarra’s operatives had been apprehended, the international freeze on assets holding strong, and the final evidence from Callan’s confession had been filed with the authorities. He had spent long hours clearing his family name, untangling years of financial manipulations, while quietly delegating the operational oversight of his company to Warner.Warner, ever eager and methodical, had been entrusted with day-to-day management, and Connor trusted him implicitly. H

The city hadn’t slept since Callan Dundarra’s confession leaked. Newsfeeds blazed with speculation, anchors traded theories, and stock tickers rolled red across the skyline. But in a single morning, everything boiled to one moment, Dundarra himself, stepping into the light to “set the record straight.”The press hall was a shrine to denial, white marble floors, too-bright lights, and a wall of cameras ready to immortalize every carefully planned word. Dundarra’s legal team flanked him like soldiers in suits, all composure and fake smiles.He adjusted his tie as he approached the podium. “Good morning,” he began smoothly, voice carrying that well-practiced calm that had once made boardrooms bow. “There have been… malicious rumors circulating. Falsehoods spread by individuals desperate to rewrite history.”The reporters murmured. He gestured to the crowd, confident. “These claims — of offshore laundering, data smuggling, and so-called ‘confessions’ — are manufactured. Lies. My son was c