HE THOUGHT HIS FATHER WAS BRAIN-DEAD FOR FIVE YEARS—UNTIL THE CRUEL HOUSEKEEPER HIT HIM, AND THE DYING DON POINTED A FINGER AT HIS KILLER!

The private dining room of the Moretti estate was a cathedral of dark mahogany, vaulted ceilings, and Waterford crystal. A long banquet table of hand-carved Italian walnut dominated the center of the room, set with fine antique silver and heavy bone china. A roaring fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across oil paintings of long-dead ancestors.

Outside, the snowstorm had ceased, leaving behind a frozen, desolate world under a starless, obsidian sky.

Sofia Bennett stood in the corner of the grand room, dressed in a loose, elegant emerald-green maternity dress that Luca’s personal shoppers had delivered to her suite hours earlier. Her hair was swept back, hiding the fading bruise on her cheek, but her hands trembled as she clutched the fabric of her skirt.

She was an outsider in a den of wolves. Yet, as she looked across the room, she saw four heavily armed guards posted at the exits—every single one of them wearing the silver lapel pin of Luca’s personal strike team. Dante stood by the sideboard, his coat unbuttoned, the grip of his customized .45 ACP clearly visible beneath the silk lining.

The heavy double doors swung open, and Marco Vane swept into the dining hall.

At forty-two, Marco was a picture of polished, corporate sociopathy. He wore a three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit, his silver-flecked hair slicked back with expensive pomade, a gold Rolex Daytona gleaming on his wrist. He was smiling—a broad, warm, charismatic grin that had fooled the New York underworld for a decade.

"Luca! My brother!" Marco boomed, opening his arms wide as he strode toward the head of the table where Luca stood pouring red wine into a crystal decanter. "I drove through three feet of unplowed drifts the second I got your message! Dante told me the most incredible news—is it true? Has Uncle Antonio really shown signs of responsiveness?"

Luca set the decanter down with agonizing slowness. He did not return the embrace. He simply turned, his dark eyes fixing upon Marco with the cold, unblinking intensity of a viper.

"Sit down, Marco," Luca said quietly, gesturing to the chair directly across from him. "Have a drink. We have much to celebrate."

Marco’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, his sharp eyes catching the unnatural stillness in the room. He looked at Dante, who didn't offer his usual respectful nod. He glanced at the corner of the room, his eyes lingering on Sofia.

"And who is this?" Marco chuckled, smoothing his silk tie as he took the indicated seat. "I didn't know we were entertaining domestic staff at the high table tonight, Luca. Or is she a special guest?"

"Her name is Sofia," Luca said, taking his seat at the head of the table. He slid a glass of heavy vintage Barolo across the polished wood toward his cousin. "She saved our family’s honor yesterday. I thought it was only fitting she witness the distribution of justice."

Marco picked up the wine glass, swirling the dark crimson liquid, his smile tightening into a thin, calculating line. "Justice? What are you talking about, Luca? Did something happen to Uncle Antonio?"

"Veronica Hayes is in federal custody," Luca said casually, taking a sip from his own glass.

Marco’s hand froze. The wine in his glass rippled violently against the crystal rim. Every trace of warmth vanished from his handsome face, replaced by a rigid, terrifying mask of caution.

"Federal custody?" Marco echoed, his voice dropping an octave, losing its performative charm. "Why would you call the feds, Luca? We handle our domestic problems internally. You know the syndicate rules. If she stole from the house, she should have been buried in the pine barrens."

"She didn't just steal silverware, Marco," Luca said, leaning back in his leather chair, the flickering firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "She was administering synthetic Russian neural blockers. Keeping my father in a chemical straightjacket for sixty months. Turning his brain into a prison."

Marco set the wine glass down. A muscle began to twitch in his jaw. "That’s... that’s horrific. An absolute tragedy. I hope Dante made the bitch pay before handing her over."

"She sang like a canary before she left," Luca murmured.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The crackle of the fireplace sounded like gunshots in the frozen room.

Marco’s right hand drifted imperceptibly toward his left armpit, where a snub-nosed .38 revolver was concealed beneath his tailored jacket. "Luca... you aren't suggesting that anyone in this family had anything to do with that lunatic’s actions, are you? I loved Antonio. He raised me after my father died."

"Did he?"

A new voice entered the room.

It was not loud. It was not boisterous. It was the dry, grinding rasp of an ancient stone shifting after centuries of burial.

Marco froze. His breath seized in his throat. His eyes darted toward the far corridor.

The private double doors leading from the medical wing swung open.

Dressed in a pristine black suit, a silver silk tie, and wrapped in an Italian woolen shawl, Don Antonio Moretti was wheeled into the grand dining hall. He was sitting fully upright. His head was held high. His piercing gray eyes were locked onto Marco Vane with the terrifying, unyielding majesty of a resurrected king.

Behind the wheelchair was not a nurse, nor a doctor.

Pushing the patriarch of New York was Luca’s top lieutenant, flanked by six men with automatic submachine guns drawn and leveled straight at Marco’s chest.

"Uncle..." Marco whispered, his face turning the color of ash. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his heavy chair backward against the floorboards.

Antonio Moretti raised his right arm—fluidly, deliberately, without a trace of the chemical palsy that had chained him for five long years.

He pointed a single, steady finger at his nephew.