The air in Il Destino grew so thin you could hear the hum of the neon sign outside. Rico Moretti's hand was locked around the grip of his customized Sig Sauer hidden inside his jacket. One wrong move, one sudden twitch from this random waitress, and she would find out why they called him the Butcher of Brooklyn.

Rico stood under the harsh glow of a single overhead bulb, casually cleaning his fingernails with a small hunting knife. Clara stood a few feet back, her arms crossed, watching the man who had tormented her childhood.

"Talk, Salvatore," Rico commanded softly, flicking the blade. "Who else in the Petrov syndicate knows Clara is here?"

Salvatore laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "You think killing me solves anything, Moretti? The syndicate isn't just a few guys in a warehouse anymore. We have politicians in our pocket. We have judges. Even if you wipe me out, Clara's name is flagged. She's dead the second she steps foot outside these gates."

Clara stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. "Why did you do it, Uncle? What did they give you to betray my parents?"

Salvatore sneer deepened. "Money, girl. Power. Everything you'll never understand. Your father was weak. He wanted out of the life."

Rico didn't wait for another word. He stepped forward, grabbed Salvatore by the collar, and slammed the knife into the wooden table right beside the man's ear.

"Your usefulness has expired," Rico said flatly. He turned to Marcus, who stood by the metal door. "Take him to the harbor. Feed him to the fish."

"No, wait! Wait!" Salvatore screamed as the guards dragged him away, his cries echoing up the concrete stairwell until the heavy steel door slammed shut.

Silence descended upon the basement once more. Rico turned to look at Clara, expecting to see fear or shock. Instead, her face was completely composed, though a single tear slipped down her cheek.

"Are you alright?" Rico asked quietly, stepping toward her.