THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME TEND HIS ORCHIDS WITH A PURPLE WRIST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE SPRAINED IT LIFTING HEAVY POTS THIS MORNING,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED.

When the crystal chandeliers slowly powered back up to full brilliance, fifty hardened criminals were staring at the Delacroix family as if they were venomous vipers coiled on the table.

In the underworld of the Five Families, rivals were shot in the streets. Traitors were buried in concrete. Wars were fought with steel, fire, and blood.

But poisoning an unarmed mother in her bed—a woman who had nursed the wounded of three syndicate wars—was a crime that stripped a family of every shred of honor, protection, and humanity.

Don Carmine Falcone, the seventy-eight-year-old sovereign of the Brooklyn docks, slowly pushed his chair back.

He stood up, his gnarled, liver-spotted hands resting heavily on his silver-tipped cane.

“Julian,” Falcone croaked, his voice trembling with an ancient, terrifying fury. “Is this the bloodline you brought to our table?”

Julian Delacroix was shaking.

His silver hair was disheveled, sweat pouring down his temples, soaking his stiff white collar.

“It’s a fabrication!” Julian shouted, his voice cracking into high-pitched panic. “Digital manipulation! Deepfakes! The Caruso family manufactured this footage to seize our northern terminals without paying the contract price!”

Dante slowly rose to his full, towering height.

He didn't look like a businessman anymore. He looked like the god of the underworld emerging from the shadows to claim his sacrifice.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out the small gold locket, and tossed it onto the center of the table.

It slid across the mahogany, coming to a halt directly in front of Julian’s plate.

Beside it, Dante dropped a thick manila folder stamped with the seal of the New York State Forensic Pathology Institute.

“That is the original toxicological analysis of my mother’s tissue samples, retrieved from Vault Seven this afternoon,” Dante said, each word falling like an iron anvil onto the silent room. “The poison was aconite. Monkshood. Cultivated exclusively in the private greenhouses of the Delacroix estate in Quebec.”

He looked at Giselle.

“My security cameras in the potting shed recorded audio this morning, Giselle.”

Giselle’s knees gave out. She collapsed against the side of the table, clutching the linen runner to keep from hitting the floor.

“You told Clara that this house belonged to whoever owned it, and next month, that would be you,” Dante whispered, his voice vibrating through the floorboards. “You twisted her wrist until the ulna snapped because she wouldn't let you throw my mother’s memory into the dirt.”

He stepped out from behind his chair, walking slowly down the length of the table.

Julian Delacroix’s eyes darted wildly toward the four bodyguards stationed at the rear exit.

“Kill him!” Julian screamed, dropping all pretense of civility. “Kill him now!”

Before the Canadian enforcers could even clear leather, the muffled thwip-thwip-thwip of suppressed automatic fire echoed from the shadows of the mezzanine.

Three of the Delacroix bodyguards dropped instantly, their weapons clattering uselessly against the marble.

The fourth guard threw his hands into the air, falling to his knees in immediate surrender.

Julian reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his shoulder holster.

He didn't aim at Dante.

He aimed directly at me.

He knew that if he fired at Dante, Falcone’s men would tear him to shreds before he could squeeze the trigger. But killing the witness—the woman who had preserved the evidence—was his only desperate act of spite.

“Down!” Dante roared.

Nero moved faster than human thought.

The hundred-and-fifty-pound Caucasian Shepherd launched himself across the table with a terrifying, earth-shaking roar. His massive jaws clamped shut around Julian’s right forearm, the sound of splintering bone echoing through the hall as the revolver was ripped from his grip, firing a wild round into the frescoed ceiling above.

Julian shrieked in agony as Nero dragged him violently across the banquet table, shattering plates, spilling wine, and sending crystal flying in every direction.

“Nero, out!” Dante commanded.

The dog released the arm instantly, stepping back onto the floor, his lips pulled back in a silent, blood-flecked snarl, standing guard over me like an iron statue.

Julian lay weeping on the ruined tablecloth, cradling his mangled arm, blood soaking the white linen.

Dante walked up to the edge of the table.

He looked down at the broken patriarch of Montreal with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.

“The Treaty of the Five Ports is terminated,” Dante announced, his voice carrying the finality of a guillotine blade. “Every cargo ship bearing the Delacroix crest in New York waters is seized under maritime admiralty decree. Your warehouses are forfeit. Your routes belong to Brooklyn.”