My pulse hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. In the dim, amber-lit sanctuary of my Chicago penthouse, the silence of the night felt thick, suffocating, and dripping with betrayal. For fifteen years, men had crossed oceans just to avoid looking me in the eye

It happened on a cold Tuesday evening. I was in the subterranean shooting range beneath the penthouse, working on my groupings with a Sig Sauer P226, when Vance stepped through the heavy steel doors, his face carved from granite.

"Boss, we have an uninvited guest at the perimeter gates," Vance said, keeping his voice strictly professional.

I lowered the pistol, dropping the magazine and clearing the chamber before placing it on the bench. "Who?"

"Not a hitman," Vance replied, his jaw tightening slightly. "A courier. He wouldn't give his name, but he left an envelope addressed specifically to you, marked with a red wax seal."

My hand froze. A red wax seal—the private crest of the Sicilian Commission, a council I had walked away from five years ago when I moved my permanent operations to Chicago.

I dried my hands on a towel and walked up to the private study, where Vance had already placed the heavy, cream-colored envelope on my desk. The seal bore the emblem of the Vitiello family—old-school royalty from Palermo who rarely concerned themselves with American turf disputes unless something catastrophic had shifted.

I broke the seal with my thumb and unfolded the thick parchment inside.

“Roman, The fall of Julian Petrovic created a power vacuum in the Great Lakes trade routes. The Commission expected you to step back into the throne. Instead, you've turned your estate into a suburban sanctuary. Weakness invites wolves, Roman. If you do not claim the northern ports by the winter solstice, others will claim them for you—starting with the remnants of Julian’s loyalists currently regrouping in Montreal.”

It was signed simply: Don Salvatore.

I folded the letter slowly, a cold, familiar fire igniting behind my ribs. I thought I had buried the gun-running and territory wars forever. But the blood in my veins didn't change just because I learned how to be a gentle father.

"Vance," I called out, my voice dropping an octave into that lethal register.