In the high-stakes world of international finance, Adrian was used to men blinking first. He assumed Nico Bellante’s reputation was mostly theater—a myth cultivated to keep the board members of Bellante Global compliant. He maintained his polished, aristocratic smile, though his fingers tightened imperceptibly around Maribel’s wrist.

At 3:15 AM, the rain at Pier 42 was a blinding sheet of gray. The Obsidian Star sat low in the water, its massive steel hull rusting under the harsh sodium lights of the crane yard.

A lone figure walked down the pier, her silhouette sharp against the fog. Maribel had put the red silk dress back on. She had refused the overcoat this time, letting the wind whip the fabric around her legs. She carried no bag, no phone, and no visible weapon. Her hands were held slightly out from her sides, showing she was unarmed.

At the base of the ship’s gangway, four heavily armed men in dark tactical gear stepped out from the shadows. One of them stepped forward, a thermal scanner in his hand. He ran it over her body, checking for wires or hidden transmitters.

"She’s clean," the guard called out into a radio. "Just the dress."

"Bring her up," a voice crackled back.

Maribel walked up the steel ramp, her heels clicking rhythmically against the metal. The interior of the cargo ship was labyrinthine, smelling of diesel, rust, and salt. She was led down a long corridor to the captain’s quarters, a spacious cabin that had been converted into a luxurious mobile command center.

Sitting behind a mahogany desk was Adrian Vale, a glass of champagne in his hand, a white bandage wrapped tightly around his wrist where Nico’s guards had handled him earlier.

And standing by the porthole, looking out at the rainy harbor, was Gianni Lucchese.

Gianni had changed in seven years. The handsome young man from the photo was gone, replaced by a ghost with a heavily scarred face, the left side of his jaw pulled tight by old burn tissue. His eyes, however, were exactly the same—cold, parasitic, and obsessed.

"Elena," Gianni said, turning around slowly. A cruel, delighted smile broke across his scarred face. "You look beautiful. The red silk... a magnificent choice for your execution."

"The name is Maribel, Gianni," she said, her voice completely calm as she stood in the center of the room. "Let’s skip the nostalgia. Where is the ledger?"

Adrian Vale laughed from the desk, sipping his champagne. "Still arrogant, even when cornered. You really are a fascinating creature, Maribel. It’s a pity Nico Bellante is too much of a thug to appreciate your financial talents. Do you know how much the Lucchese family paid my firm to facilitate this little reunion? Enough to buy three more shipping lines."

"You sold out your partner for a cash injection, Adrian?" Maribel asked, looking at him with pity. "Nico will find you. No matter what country you hide in, he will find you."

"Nico Bellante is currently surrounded by forty federal agents at his harbor safe house," Gianni interrupted, stepping close to Maribel, his fingers reaching out to trace the collarbone exposed by the red dress. She didn't flinch, though her skin crawled at his touch. "I gave Assistant Director Vance the location ten minutes ago. Nico is either dead or in handcuffs by now."

Gianni reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book with a silver lock—the original Bellante ledger. He tapped it against his palm.

"The empire is gone, Elena," Gianni whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "You have no shield left. Now, you’re coming back to Sicily with me, where you will spend the rest of your very short life paying for what you did to my father."

Maribel looked at the ledger, then looked directly into Gianni’s eyes. A slow, terrifying smile formed on her lips.

"You always were an idiot, Gianni," Maribel said softly. "You think Nico is at the safe house? Nico hasn't left my side all night."

Gianni frowned, his hand dropping from her collarbone. "What are you talking about?"

Maribel reached down to the hem of her red silk dress. With a sharp, sudden pull, she ripped a long strip of fabric from the inner lining, revealing a thin, flexible copper wire that had been woven into the hem of the dress itself—not a transmitter, but a low-frequency induction antenna.

"The thermal scanner checked for electronics," Maribel said, her voice dropping into the icy tone she used when dismantling corporate boards. "But it didn't check for passive copper wiring. This entire dress is a localized frequency jammer. And the moment I rip the line..."