Brett’s hand was still frozen on the brass doorknob, his knuckles turning white as the sheer, suffocating gravity of the room washed over him. The three men in bespoke dark suits didn’t draw weapons; they didn't need to. Their mere physical presence—broad-shouldered, immovable, radiating cold menace—turned the private dining room into an airless vault.

The subterranean tunnel smelled of damp earth and gun oil. We navigated by the dim, flickering glow of emergency LED strips running along the baseboards. My legs ached, my sneakers slipping on the damp concrete, but Marcus didn't slow down for a single second.

“Where does this lead?” I asked, my voice echoing off the curved ceiling.

“The boathouse on the river,” Marcus grunted over his shoulder, his hand never leaving the grip of his sidearm. “From there, we have a speedboat waiting to take us to the secondary safehouse.”

“And Salvatore?”

“The boss is handling the clean-up,” Marcus said flatly. “Trust me, kid. Worry about yourself. The O’Neills just stepped into a meat grinder, and they don't even know it yet.”

We reached the end of the tunnel, where a heavy steel fire door stood ajar. Faint daylight filtered through the gap, accompanied by the gentle lapping of river water against wooden pilings.

As we stepped out into the damp, shadowed interior of the boathouse, a cold metallic click echoed from the corner of the room.

“Don't move,” a smooth, chilling voice commanded.

I froze. Emerging from the shadows beside the slipway was a man in an impeccably tailored grey suit—the exact kind of suit Salvatore wore, but worn by someone with dead, shark-like eyes. It was Liam O’Neill, head of the North Side syndicate.

In his hand, he held a sleek, suppressed pistol pointed directly at Marcus’s chest.

“Well, well, well,” Liam smiled, a cruel, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. “Marquetti’s little accountant and his babysitter. I wondered who was hiding in the rat holes.”

Marcus tensed, his muscles coiling like a spring, ready to lunge despite the gun.

“Don't even think about it, big guy,” Liam warned, shifting his aim slightly toward my head. “One twitch, and the girl loses her brains.”

My heart stopped. I couldn't sign; my hands were pinned to my sides. I had to use my voice.

“You think killing us stops him?” I challenged, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound brave. “Salvatore owns half the police department, three federal judges, and every dock from here to Indiana. You’re already a dead man.”

Liam laughed—a short, dry sound devoid of humor. “Marquetti is bleeding out on 22nd Street right now. By nightfall, his empire belongs to me.”

“Is that so?”