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.

Salvatore stood framed in the sunlight of the boathouse entrance. His white shirt was stained with dark crimson—not his own, but his enemies’—and his jacket was gone, revealing the broad, muscular shoulders of a man who had fought his way up from the gutter.

In his hand, he held a heavy, customized submachine gun, pointed with absolute, unwavering precision directly at Liam’s chest.

“Drop it, Liam,” Salvatore signed with his left hand while keeping the weapon steady with his right. Drop it, or I paint this floor with you.

Liam’s face turned the color of curdled milk. His fingers trembled around the grip of his pistol. He glanced between Salvatore and the gun, calculating the impossible odds.

“You’re insane, Marquetti,” Liam spat, his voice cracking with panic. “You wipe me out, and the entire commission comes down on your head. It’s an all-out war.”

Salvatore didn't blink. He didn't even hesitate. His fingers flicked a swift, brutal sign: There is no commission left.

Before Liam could pull the trigger, Marcus moved with blinding, terrifying speed. He lunged across the space, slamming his heavy forearm into Liam’s wrist. The pistol flew from Liam’s grip, clattering across the wooden planks and splashing uselessly into the river below.

Marcus twisted Liam’s arm behind his back, shoving him face-first against the concrete pillar with a dull thud.

Salvatore walked forward slowly, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. He stopped inches from Liam, towering over the rival boss like an executioner at the gallows.

He didn't hit him. He didn't yell. He simply raised his hands, his fingers moving with slow, deliberate, agonizing clarity.

You touched my house. You threatened my people. And worst of all... you interrupted my dinner.

Liam choked out a gasp as Marcus applied pressure to his arm. “Please... Marquetti... mercy—”

Salvatore turned his back on him with casual, absolute disdain, walking over to where I stood frozen against the wall. His eyes softened the moment they met mine. He reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead, his fingers signing softly: Are you hurt?