THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO BANISH HIS SEVENTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD CHILDHOOD CHEF TO THE BASEMENT—BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HIM TO THE BANQUET TABLE, DANTE CARUSO STOOD UP AND SAID, “NONNO? THEY TOLD ME YOU DIED IN NAPLES.”

Unlike the ancient stone vaults of the north wing, this room was outfitted with modern surveillance monitors, cellular jammers, and bank-vault steel doors. In the center of the room, sitting on an unadorned metal chair beneath a harsh halogen lamp, was Giselle Delacroix.

Dante and I entered side by side, followed by Marco Vane carrying an encrypted tactical tablet.

Giselle looked up, her breathing ragged. On the table before her lay the remnants of her personal belongings: her encrypted satellite phone, a forged French passport, and the seven-carat cushion-cut engagement ring that Dante had stripped from her finger the night before.

“I want a lawyer,” Giselle whispered, her voice hoarse from hours of shouting into the soundproof walls.

Dante didn't answer. He pulled out the metal chair across from her and sat down, leaning his elbows on the steel table. His presence in the enclosed space was suffocating.

“You don't get a lawyer in this house, Giselle,” Dante said calmly. “You get thirty minutes to give me Falcone’s tactical frequency and the docking manifest for Pier 42. If you cooperate, Marco puts you on a private jet to Zurich with five hundred thousand dollars in a living trust. You change your name, and you never return to North America. If you refuse... you stay in the cell next to your father.”

Giselle let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “You think Falcone trusts me with his primary tactical frequency? He treats me like a courier!”

Marco tapped the screen of his tablet and spun it toward her. “We cracked your phone’s secondary partition twenty minutes ago, Miss Delacroix. You received six encrypted bursts between three and five this morning. All originating from a mobile command unit parked at the industrial park on the shore of Long Island Sound.”

Giselle’s smirk evaporated. She looked down at the tablet, her pupils contracting with terror.

“They’re going to sink the cargo ship,” Giselle stammered, the truth finally tumbling out of her in a frantic, uncontainable flood. “Falcone doesn't care about the ledger anymore! He knows Giuseppe survived! He knows that once Giuseppe confirmed the Sicilian records, the Five Families would unite behind you!”

“What is the plan at Pier 42?” Dante demanded, his voice hardening into steel.

“An ambush,” Giselle sobbed, grabbing the edges of the table. “Falcone’s mercenaries are dressed as private port security. When your inspection team boards the container ship at midnight to check the cargo manifests, they’re detonating thermite charges along the hull. They’re going to sink the vessel, trap your strike team in the hold, and claim it was an accidental industrial explosion!”

Dante stared at her for five long seconds, analyzing every micro-expression on her tear-streaked face. Satisfied that she had exhausted her deceit, he stood up.

“Marco. Verify the frequency codes with our harbor scouts. If they match, prepare the transport for Switzerland.”

As Dante turned toward the heavy door, Giselle suddenly lunged forward, her manicured hand grabbing the seven-carat emerald engagement ring resting on the table. With a shriek of unhinged fury, she hurled the priceless diamond against the concrete floor.

The stone struck the reinforced aggregate with an explosive crack, the brilliant center gem fracturing into three jagged, useless pieces that scattered across the dust.

“Take your pathetic ring!” Giselle screamed, tears of hatred running down her face. “Take your dead mother’s ghost, take your ancient cook, and take that filthy little kitchen maid! You’ll never have peace, Dante! You’re cursed to die in the dark just like your father!”

Dante didn't even look back at the broken gemstone on the floor.