That made Alexander look.
“A child slipped past security,” Samuel said carefully. “She insists on seeing you. Says it’s urgent.”
“It’s nearly midnight,” Alexander muttered. “Have her escorted out.”
“We tried. She claims she has information about Mrs. Dumitrescu.”
The glass stopped halfway to his lips.
No one said Emily’s name anymore. It was treated like a fragile relic no one dared touch.
“Bring her up,” he said quietly.
Minutes later, the girl stood in the center of the vast living room.
She couldn’t have been older than ten. Dark curls tied back messily. Sneakers worn thin at the soles. A jacket too light for the Chicago cold. But her eyes—alert, sharp, carrying something far older than childhood—locked onto his immediately.
Two guards stood beside her, one gripping her shoulder too tightly.
“Let her go,” Alexander said.
The guard released her. She rubbed her shoulder but didn’t retreat. She lifted her chin with the steady defiance of someone who had learned that fear invites cruelty.
“My name is Isabella Cruz,” she said evenly. “And your wife is alive.”
The room went still.