The emergency generators of the penthouse failed to kick in. One second, the skyline of Central Park South was framed by floor-to-ceiling glass, and the next, the world was swallowed by a heavy, suffocating blackness. The digital heart monitor beside Leo’s bed was the only exception, casting a rhythmic, sickly green pulse across the room.

Vincent didn't even flinch at the red dot dancing across his custom-tailored Tom Ford suit. He slowly turned around, his hands resting casually in his pockets, exuding a terrifying aura of absolute control.

“Chicago,” Vincent murmured, a cold smirk touching the corner of his lips. “Marcus Vance always was a lapdog who didn’t know when to bark. You think sending a hit squad to my living room changes the math, Salvatore?”

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of the private elevator, followed by four heavily armed enforcers wearing tactical gear bearing the insignia of the Chicago Outfit—a golden skull intertwined with wheat stalks. Salvatore Vance, Marcus’s ruthless younger brother, held a customized SIG Sauer with a lazy, mocking grip.

“The math changed the moment your own blood sold you out, Vincent,” Salvatore laughed, gesturing toward Simon, who was still pinned against the piano by Tommy. “Uncle Simon here offered us a fifty percent stake in the New York docks if we just cleared house. Clean, efficient, and entirely untraceable back to the Outfit.”

“You naive bastard,” Simon wheezed, spitting blood onto the white marble keys. “They’re going to kill us both the second the deed is done!”

“Shut up, old man,” Salvatore snapped, glancing back at Celia, who was crouched near the bed shielding Leo with her own body. “Well, what do we have here? A little diner waitress caught in the crossfire? Tsk, tsk. Vincent, you’ve gone soft. Bringing strays into the inner sanctum.”

“Step away from the boy, Salvatore,” Vincent warned, his voice dropping an octave—a frequency that usually preceded immediate bloodshed.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me with what? Your bare hands?” Salvatore raised his pistol, aiming directly at Celia’s head. “Let’s start with the witness. Send a message to the rest of the rats.”

Celia closed her eyes, bracing herself for the sharp crack of gunfire. She thought of her mother, waiting in the hospital room in Queens. She thought of how unfair it was to die for a rich kid she’d met only an hour ago.

Crack.

The shot rang out, shattering the massive crystal chandelier above them. Shards of diamond-like glass rained down like a deadly storm.

But Celia didn’t feel pain.

She opened her eyes. Salvatore Vance was stumbling backward, clutching his right shoulder, blood gushing between his fingers. The Chicago enforcer behind him dropped his weapon with a metallic clatter, a clean entry wound punched straight through his tactical helmet.