THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KEEP MY LEFT HAND UNDER MY APRON WHILE SERVING HIS STEAK—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT IT IN THE DISHWASHER DOOR,” BEFORE HE COULD EVEN SPEAK.

The distant hum of the Las Vegas Strip filtered through the reinforced panoramic glass, painting the mahogany walls in shifting bands of electric magenta and cold neon blue.

Dominic didn’t pull his arm away from my grip. His gaze drifted down to my trembling fingers wrapped around his tailored cuff, then slowly lifted back to my face.

His expression was devoid of rage. It was worse. It was the terrifying, calculating stillness of an executioner verifying the drop.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Dominic repeated in a voice smooth as shaved ice. “On the desert highway toward the Valley of Fire estate.”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed, every word scraping against the dryness of my throat. “She told Vance that her father’s men had already staged two heavy transport trucks near the canyon switchbacks. They were going to box in your lead limousine, disable the comms with a military jammer, and force your security into an open canyon kill-zone.”

Dominic reached for the phone console on his desk, pressing the direct line to the private armory.

“Marco.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Bring the gunsmith up to the study. If he resists, break his thumbs.”

“He’s already zip-tied in the freight elevator, sir. Coming up now.”

Dominic released the button, turning his full attention back to me. He unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket, tossing it over the back of his leather armchair, and rolled back the cuffs of his crisp dress shirt. On his left wrist, a heavy Rolex in brushed platinum ticked with rhythmic, cold precision.

“What is your sister’s name, Sylvie?”

I blinked, thrown by the sudden shift in focus. “Clara, sir. Clara Laurent. She’s sixteen.”

“Where is she tonight?”

“At our apartment on Desert Inn Road,” I answered, my pulse fluttering frantically against my collarbones. “She has midterms on Monday. She was studying when I left for my shift.”

Dominic didn’t hesitate. He dialed a four-digit internal extension.

“Lev. Take two armored Suburbans to 1420 Desert Inn Road. Pick up Clara Laurent. If anyone who is not on my personal payroll is within two blocks of that building, eliminate them. Bring the girl to the private bunker at the Bellagio tower. Do not frighten her.”

My knees went weak with a mixture of raw terror and overwhelming gratitude.

“Mr. Cassel... please... she doesn't know anything about the syndicate. She thinks I work at a luxury hotel.”

“She will not be harmed, Sylvie,” Dominic said softly, stepping closer until his shadow enveloped me entirely. “In this city, people who bleed for my family do not watch their loved ones pay the price. You kept your mouth shut under torture to protect her, and now my armor belongs to both of you.”

The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.

Marco walked in, shoving a disheveled, sweating middle-aged man in a grease-stained canvas jacket into the center of the Persian rug.

Gregory Vance.

The master gunsmith dropped to his knees, his hands bound tightly behind his back with industrial zip-ties. His lower lip was split, bleeding onto his collar, and his eyes were wild with cornered animal panic.

Dominic walked over to the mahogany workbench in the corner of his study.

Resting on a velvet cloth was his personal custom Colt .45—the weapon his father had carried during the bloody turf wars of the 1990s.

Dominic picked up the weapon, racked the slide back, and removed the barrel assembly with practiced, lightning-fast fingers. He held the tiny steel firing pin up to the desk lamp.

Under the bright halogen bulb, a hairline fracture was visible near the striker face—a micro-cut filed with diamond paste so precise that it would withstand dry-firing, but shatter into fragments the instant a live cartridge was struck, sealing the firing pin in the forward channel and blowing the extractor outward into the shooter’s thumb.

Dominic set the components down on the desk with a quiet, metallic clink.

He walked over to where Vance was kneeling.

“You charged forty thousand dollars to build custom competition triggers for my father, Gregory,” Dominic murmured, his voice sounding like boots grinding into dry gravel. “He paid your mortgage for ten years.”

“Dominic, please!” Vance wept, pressing his forehead against the floorboards. “Sterling threatened my daughter! Harold Sterling told me that if I didn't file down the striker before tonight's banquet, he would have my shop burned to the ground with my family inside! I had no choice!”

Dominic looked down at the weeping craftsman with absolute, chilling detachment.

“You always had a choice, Gregory,” Dominic whispered. “You could have walked into this penthouse and told me Harold Sterling was leaning on you. I would have given you an armored escort to Zurich by midnight.”

He turned to Marco.

“Take him to the basement vaults. If he gives us the radio frequencies for the mercenary ambush team in the canyon, let him keep his hands. If he lies by a single syllable, feed him to the incinerator.”

“Yes, boss.”

Marco hauled the screaming gunsmith out of the study, the heavy doors thudding shut behind them.

Silence rushed back into the room.