It was a lazy afternoon three months later.

Dark green ivy crept over the cast-iron bench in the old mansion's garden.

Between my fingers, I held the financial report of my new company, but my gaze drifted to the distance-two bodyguards in black suits, miniature communicators tucked behind their ears, stood with their backs to me, hidden behind the laurel trees.

The faint silver iris badge on their collars marked them as members of the Iris Syndicate, the family my husband William belonged to.

Frank approached quietly, his leather shoes crunching softly on the gravel path, a bone china tray of tea and pastries in his hands.

"Ma'am, Daniel's been up to something new," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Last month, he rented a tiny 15-square-meter office in the west end, trying to pick up small construction jobs. Our men have been keeping tabs, every client he's approached is either some small-time boss he screwed over back in the day, or..."

He paused, his knuckles tapping the edge of the tray.

"...lower-ranking lieutenants from the Syndicate, sent to mess with him on purpose."

I lifted my teacup, the curling steam blurring my vision.

The west end was a tangled mess of fledgling startups and the Syndicate's gray-market operations-by setting up shop there, Daniel was practically snatching food from a tiger's mouth.

"He still doesn't seem to get it," Frank went on.

"He's still wearing that Savile Row suit he had tailored three years ago, had it dry-cleaned and pressed eight times, but the fraying on the lapels is impossible to hide. Last week, he met with a client who does building materials. The guy asked if Daniel could handle a project with a 100,000- budget, and Daniel blew a fuse right then and there.

'Chump change compared to the loose change in my old contracts,' he said. Turns out that client was Tiger-the Syndicate's man in charge of construction material transport. He slammed the contract on Daniel's face and sneered, 'Mr. Daniel, now you're not even fit to shine my shoes.'"

I could picture the scene vividly: Daniel sitting in a cramped conference room, a rickety ceiling fan creaking overhead.

He wore that suit-still immaculately cut, but undeniably worn-out-trying to throw his weight around like the high-powered CBD executive he used to be, only to be publicly humiliated by a mafia underling reeking of cigarettes.

Those hands that once signed billion deals now turned red with rage haggling over a measly 100,000- project-and he didn't dare lay a finger on Tiger.

Little did he know, Tiger kept a modified Beretta holstered at his waist at all times, its serial number registered in the Syndicate's weapons vault.

"And then there's Lola..."

Frank's tone dripped with disdain.

"She kicked up a huge fuss at a luxury boutique yesterday afternoon. She had her eye on a Hermès Birkin and demanded Daniel pay for it. He told her he only had 30,000 left in his card, and she smashed the bag right on the counter. '

You swore you'd take care of me for life!' she shrieked.

'Now you can't even afford me a bag-what kind of man are you?' Our men saw on the security footage that the diamond necklace around her neck was a sample Daniel stole from one of the Syndicate's jewelry stores last year. It's been marked by us from day one."

What the report didn't say was that right after Lola's tantrum, the boutique manager called Frank directly, asking, "Shall we have her taken into custody?"

Frank's order was clear: "No need. Let her make a scene-let her push Daniel to his breaking point."

I set down my teacup and stared at the camellias in full bloom in the courtyard.

Their petals were a deep, blood-red hue-just like the marks left on my arm when Lola dug her nails into me as she stood beside Daniel on Christmas eve.

The next day, Daniel's biggest client suddenly terminated their contract-and the signature on the termination letter belonged to the head of the Iris Syndicate's Italian branch.

Daniel had never stopped to think that the "true love" he'd abandoned ten years of marriage and broken every vow for would turn so ugly once the money dried up.

He'd never realized that his success in the CBD wasn't due to his own "ability"-it was all because my father had quietly funneled the Syndicate's resources his way. Everything he thought he'd earned was just a sugar cube tossed casually by a mafia tycoon.

I saw Daniel again a month later, at the Ivan House Charity Gala.

The gala was held in the top-floor ballroom, where crystal chandeliers dazzled the eye.

Amidst the sea of elegant gowns and tailored suits, silver iris brooches were everywhere.

I'd just finished chatting with Alex about a new energy collaboration when I turned and spotted Daniel standing alone in a corner.

The fraying cuffs of his suit glinted under the lights, impossible to miss.

He had no one beside him-not even Lola-just a half-empty glass of cheap champagne in his hand.

When he saw me, he hesitated for a long moment before walking over, as if he were marching to his execution.

My bodyguards moved to block him, but I stopped them with a glance.

"Anna," he said, his voice rough and dry, like sandpaper scraping wood.

"Can we talk? Alone?"

I glanced at the Patek Philippe on my wrist-a watch embedded with a micro-camera linked directly to the Syndicate's surveillance center. "Five minutes."

The wind on the terrace was biting, whipping his tie askew.

He gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Not far behind him, in the shadows, Frank leaned against the wall smoking a cigarette.

"I know how ridiculous this sounds," Daniel said, his eyes pleading, almost groveling.

"But I don't want you to hate me forever. At first, I only helped Lola because she reminded me of those days in college when I worked as a cement hauler... Do you remember?"

"I remember," I cut him off, my voice flat.

"That construction site where you carried cement? It was an Browns Syndicate property. My father told the foreman to slip you an extra 200 in overtime pay."

Daniel's face drained of all color in an instant.

He'd had no idea. Everything he'd thought of as his "self-made success" had been tainted by the mafia from the very start.

"Later, she'd stay late at the office just to bring me lunch... And that rainy day, her clothes were soaked through. I just felt sorry for her..." He trailed off, his voice growing smaller, still making excuses.

"So you slept with her out of sympathy?" I couldn't help but laugh. "Or was it because you thought the Syndicate's resources would always be there for you to leech off?"

Daniel's lips trembled.

"The day you were on a business trip, she cried and said she was scared of the thunderstorm. She begged me to stay with her... I'd had too much to drink, and when I woke up, she was already..."

"Lying next to you?" I finished the sentence for him, the contempt in my eyes impossible to hide. "How cliché." William always says, 'A traitor's excuses are always weaker than their bones.'"

"William..." Daniel's head shot up, his eyes filled with terror. "You and him... you..."

"We've been married for three years," I said, lifting my hand to show him the massive diamond ring on my ring finger-a custom piece William had made with a pink diamond smuggled out of South Africa.

"Did you really think you could dominate the CBD for five whole years on your own? Who do you think gave you the guts?"

Daniel's shoulders slumped forward, as if all the strength had been sucked out of his bones. His eyes welled up with tears as he grabbed my wrist, his nails digging into my skin. "Anna, please-give me another chance. I know I was wrong. I'll do anything for William-anything. I'll even collect debts for the Syndicate!"

I pulled my wrist out of his grasp gently, my voice cold and final.

"No."

Plane tree leaves, whirled by the wind, slammed against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, making a faint, crackling sound-exactly like the tap of Daniel's frost-numbed, red fingertips on my window lattice that snowy six years ago.

"Have you heard? Daniel. he's working for Grizzly on the South Side now."

The silver spoon I was stirring my black tea with clinked sharply against the porcelain.

Scalding steam billowed up against my face.

Grizzly- a household name in the city's underworld, who controlled half of the port's smuggling routes, his rackets ranging from casinos to dockside warehouses, so powerful that even the police department gave him a wide berth. How could Daniel have gotten mixed up with someone like that?

"It's more than just working for him," my best friend leaned in closer, her voice tinged with unmistakable gossip and wariness.

"Word is he's Grizzly's right-hand man now. Last month, he took a bullet for Grizzly from a rival-three ribs broken, and he didn't even groan. Oh, and that tattoo artist Lola-"

She paused, a note of disgust in her tone.

"Lola had a son with him, but the kid has a congenital heart disease. The surgery costs a million US dollars."

A million.

I lowered my eyes to the tea leaves settled at the bottom of the cup, and suddenly I remembered three years ago, before Daniel had been completely sucked into that mess, he'd taken me to the Night Leopard Club, owned by Grizzly.

That day, he'd worn a crisp black suit, a matte gold bear-head badge pinned to his lapel-the symbol of Grizzly's inner circle. He'd popped open a bottle of 1982 Lafite at random, the number on the label searing my eyes like a red-hot iron. That bottle of wine had cost exactly a million US dollars.

To raise money for the surgery, Daniel took on the riskiest job from Grizzly: intercept a shipment of arms belonging to his rival Cobra at the docks. He sneaked into the warehouse with three of his brothers, only to walk into an ambush.

He took two stab wounds in the shootout, yet dragged himself through the pain to seize the arms anyway.

But the money was still warm in his hands when Lola took half of it to buy limited-edition bags and jewelry.

Endless arguments broke out between them.

Daniel called her immature, saying it was their son's life-saving money; Lola smashed the bear-head badge on his desk and screamed that he was "Grizzly's dog," that the money he earned was filthy.

Once, they argued until the early hours of the morning, and Daniel, losing his temper after her tirades, accidentally pushed her down the stairs.

When she called the police, she deliberately threw the badge at the officers' feet-she knew Grizzly hated nothing more than his men dragging personal matters into the open.

Grizzly's punishment came fast.

Daniel was locked in the warehouse's freezer all night, half-dead when he was let out, yet still clutching the surgeon's operation notice.

But before he could recover, Lola absconded with the remaining money one dawn, leaving only a note: "Living with someone like you for a lifetime is worse than finding someone who can give me a stable life."

The child didn't make it through that winter.

It snowed heavily that day, just like it did on that Christmas eve.

Daniel knelt in the snow, holding the child's body, while the man Grizzly sent stood beside him and said coldly: "Grizzly says you broke the rules-this is your lesson."

He didn't cry, just buried his face in the child's cold little quilt, his shoulders shaking like fallen leaves in the wind.

Later still, someone found Lola in a nightclub in a small southern city.

She was hanging on the arm of a sixty-year-old businessman, a diamond ring the size of a pigeon's egg on her finger, lighting a cigarette for the old man.

The nightclub was Cobra's territory, and when Daniel found her, he was followed by two of Grizzly's bodyguards-Grizzly had said, "Settle your own debts."

When he burst in, Lola was smiling brightly as she fed fruit to the old man.

Daniel grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out; Cobra's security guards swarmed to beat him, his face bruised and swollen, two teeth knocked out, yet he clung tightly to her wrist and refused to let go.

When the police arrived, he laughed through a mouth full of blood, his voice raspy like a broken bellows: "Run! Even if you run to the ends of the earth, I'll make you pay for my son's life!"

The bear-head tattoo on his wrist twisted with the force of his grip-the "mark" Grizzly had given him.

In the late autumn courtyard, fallen leaves carpeted the ground thickly, just like the ginkgo-leaf-strewn path he'd walked on the day he brought me roasted sweet potatoes.

I fell silent for a long time, my fingertips tracing the crack on the teacup-the one he'd accidentally smashed the last time he came begging me for help.

He'd knelt before me then, his suit still stained with blood, and said: "lend me some money-my son is dying."

I'd said: "Daniel, we haven't had anything to do with each other for a long time."

But I gave him the card anyway.

Later, Grizzly's lawyer told me that Lola had taken the money, not a cent of it spent on the child.

"I see." I looked up, my voice as faint as the mist outside the window.

My best friend looked at me worriedly.

"Are you okay? I heard Grizzly's been cleaning house lately, and Daniel. he might be sent on a suicide mission."

I lowered my head and took a sip of tea; it had gone cold, just like the roasted sweet potato he'd given me in the snow that year, which had finally turned cold in my hand.

Through the hazy steam, I seemed to see the eighteen-year-old Daniel on that Christmas eve.

He was wearing a faded school uniform, a smudge of roasted sweet potato char on his collar, and he turned to wave at me from the classroom door, his smile as bright and clean as the sunlight after snow.

He said: "When I make money someday, I'll buy you the best roasted sweet potatoes in the whole world."