Head into the next chapter to uncover what happens next.

The heavy oak door of Alessandro’s private executive study was unlocked.

Alessandro walked up the carpeted stairs with measured, unhurried strides, his boots making a dull, heavy sound against the plush runner. Gabriel and two loyalist operatives flanked him closely, their assault rifles held at the ready, clearing every corner of the upper gallery before securing the hallway outside the study.

Alessandro reached out, gripped the brass handle of his study door, and pushed it open.

The room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a single desk lamp resting on the mahogany executive desk. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the walls were undisturbed, but the room reeked of expensive bourbon and nervous sweat.

Sitting behind Alessandro’s executive desk—in Alessandro’s leather chair—was Victor Salvatore.

Victor wasn't holding a weapon. He had placed his suppressed Walther PPK neatly in the center of the blotter, right beside a leather-bound ledger containing the syndicate’s offshore asset transfers. He looked older now, the harsh desk light casting deep shadows across his face, but his eyes still retained that calculating, razor-sharp intelligence that had made him Alessandro’s shadow for twenty-five years.

"You always did know how to make a dramatic entrance, Alessandro," Victor said smoothly, leaning back in the leather chair and resting his hands calmly on the armrests. He didn't sound panicked. He sounded like a man who had already calculated the odds and accepted the ledger balance. "I must admit, I didn't expect you to make it past the boathouse guards. Gabriel’s loyalty runs deeper than I calculated."

Alessandro stepped fully into the study, closing the heavy door behind him with a quiet, decisive click. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't point his Beretta at Victor’s head. He simply walked around the side of the desk, pulling out a visitor's chair, and sat down directly across from his former best friend.

"You miscalculated more than just Gabriel, Victor," Alessandro said quietly, resting his hands on his knees. "You miscalculated a five-year-old child."

Victor’s mouth twitched at the mention of Sophia. A brief, bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Ah. The housekeeper’s brat. Who would have guessed that twenty-five years of criminal masterminds, federal indictments, and syndicate wars would be undone by a toddler with a box of crayons?"

"She isn't a brat, Victor. She’s observant," Alessandro corrected, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp register. "She noticed what you couldn't hide: your impatience. You couldn't wait another year for my heart to give out naturally, so you accelerated the dosage. You left digital footprints in the server room, and she mapped them out while you were busy counting my money."

Victor leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his eyes locking onto Alessandro’s with a sudden, intense spike of venom. "And what about the board, Alessandro? Do you really think executing me solves anything? Marcus, Rossi, the port authority officials—they all signed off on the transition. They want a modern syndicate, not an aging dictator clinging to old-world codes of honor!"

"The board will have a new leader by morning," Alessandro said calmly, pulling a small audio recording device from his pocket and placing it squarely on the blotter between them.

Victor stared at the recorder. The little red LED light was blinking steadily.

"What is that?" Victor asked, his voice tightening for the first time.

"That," Alessandro said, a cold, hard smile touching his lips, "is the recording of our conversation right now—automatically synced via satellite relay to the federal prosecutor's office downtown, as well as to every loyal capo in the Tri-State area. You just confessed to corporate embezzlement, targeted poisoning, and treason against the Moretti family."

Victor went completely pale. The last vestige of his cool, aristocratic composure shattered instantly. He lunged across the desk toward the Walther PPK resting on the blotter—

BANG!

Alessandro’s Beretta fired once. The bullet punched through the wooden edge of the desk an inch from Victor’s right hand, showering splinters across his knuckles.

"Don't, Victor," Alessandro whispered, the muzzle of his pistol locked dead onto the center of Victor’s chest. "Twenty-five years of brotherhood ended the moment you poured that first poisoned drop into my cup. Put your hands on the desk where I can see them."

Victor stared down at the smoking hole in the desk, his chest heaving as reality finally crashed down around him. Slowly, trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer terror, he slid his hands flat onto the polished mahogany surface.