“THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME LIMP ACROSS HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER CARRYING AN ENORMOUS ARRANGEMENT OF WHITE ROSES—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, ‘SHE FELL IN THE FLOWER COOLER,’ BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY I COULDN’T WALK PROPERLY.”

Sitting in that heavy mahogany chair, wearing my wrinkled maid’s uniform with a white compression bandage wrapped around my left ankle, felt like stepping into an execution chamber.

Across the table, twelve senior syndicate commanders sat with their hands flat on the damask cloth.

Men who controlled the concrete unions of Lake County, the illicit gaming halls of Cicero, and the trucking routes stretching to the Canadian border were looking at me not with contempt, but with the quiet, terrified respect reserved for the person who had just lit the fuse on a forty-million-dollar powder keg.

Luca remained standing.

He picked up the unrolled pages of Julian Vance’s journal, folding them carefully, and placed them into the inner breast pocket of his vest.

“Gentlemen,” Luca addressed the table, his voice carrying the calm, absolute authority of a man who had already decided the fate of everyone in the room. “Three months ago, the Commission approached me with an arrangement. They told me that uniting the Moretti fleet with the Bellini shipping lines would bring permanent peace to the northern corridor.”

He looked at Salvatore Bellini, who was sweating through his bespoke pinstripe suit, his heavy jowls quivering with suppressed fury.

“They told me Vanessa Bellini was an honorable daughter of the Outfit. They told me her family operated with transparency and respect for the old treaties.”

Luca picked up a crystal wine decanter from the center of the table.

He walked slowly down the length of the mahogany wood, stopping behind Don Carmine Falcone, the oldest and most respected capo at the table—a man who had carried a bullet in his hip since the gang wars of 1982.

Luca poured three inches of vintage Barolo into Falcone’s empty goblet.

“Carmine,” Luca murmured.

“Luca,” the old man rasped, his weathered face carved from dark leather.

“In 1982, when my father took the West Side terminals, what did we do with a man who murdered an innocent civilian to steal a property deed?”

Carmine didn't look at Salvatore. He reached out with his scarred hand, lifting the glass to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip.

“We buried him beneath the property he stole, Luca,” Carmine answered in a raspy, gravelly whisper. “And we salted the earth so his family never drew another breath in this county.”

A collective intake of breath hissed through the twenty-four guests.

Salvatore Bellini sprang halfway out of his chair, his hands clawing at the table edge.

“Carmine! You old fool! You’re taking the word of a dead boy’s scribbles over a thirty-year partnership? My family controls forty percent of the freight entering this city! If you break this alliance, the state police will have search warrants on every terminal by morning!”

Luca set the decanter down onto the table with a sharp, concussive THUD.

“The state police are already at your terminal in Gary, Salvatore,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that chilling, razor-sharp register that made grown men break into a cold sweat.

Salvatore’s mouth snapped shut. His face turned completely gray.

“What did you say?”

“My head of logistics dispatched an anonymous tip to the Indiana State Police forty minutes ago,” Luca continued smoothly. “Accompanied by the GPS coordinates from Julian’s journal indicating where the concrete was poured at the Greenpoint depot six years ago.”

Luca stepped back to the head of the table, his dark eyes locking onto Vanessa, who was shivering so hard her teeth were clicking together like dice.

“Ground-penetrating radar is scanning the third foundation pillar right now, Vanessa,” Luca whispered. “And by the time the sun rises over Lake Michigan, the county coroner will have your first husband’s bones out of the dirt.”

Vanessa let out a shriek that sounded like a wounded animal. She threw herself off her chair, collapsing onto the wet floorboards at Luca’s feet, her red silk gown soaking in the spilled wine and flower water.

“Luca! Please! Have mercy! My father made me do it! He told me Julian would ruin us! I didn't want him buried there! I begged my father to just let him leave the country!”

Salvatore reached into his coat with sudden, desperate speed, his hand diving toward his armpit holster.

Before his fingers could even touch the checkered grip of his weapon, Daniel moved.

A single, muffled THWIP echoed from Daniel’s suppressed pistol.

The heavy hollow-point round shattered the meat of Salvatore’s right shoulder, spinning the older mobster violently around, slamming him back into his chair with a concussive crunch of bone.

Salvatore screamed in agony, clutching his bloody shoulder, dark arterial blood pumping through his fingers, staining his pristine white dress shirt.

Nobody at the table flinched.

Nobody reached for a weapon.