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.

Elena Vance.

Salvatore’s own half-sister, and the most feared intelligence broker in the tristate area. She wore a sleek black leather duster, her silver-streaked hair tied back in a sharp ponytail, and her eyes locked onto her bleeding brother with absolute disdain.

“Elena?!” Salvatore shrieked, clutching his shoulder as his men scrambled for cover. “Have you lost your mind? We have an agreement with the Commission!”

“The Commission didn’t authorize a hit on a seven-year-old child, Sal,” Elena said coldly, lowering her rifle and tossing it casually to one of Vincent’s guards. She walked past the shattered glass as if it were rose petals, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.

She stopped beside Vincent, eyeing him up and down with a critical smirk. “You’re losing your touch, V. Letting family stab you in the back? I expected better from the king of New York.”

“Save the commentary, Elena,” Vincent replied, his eyes fixed on Salvatore. “Are the perimeter blocks holding?”

“Better than that,” Elena replied, pulling a heavy-duty military tablet from her coat and tapping the screen. “The moment your phone call went out to Celia, my servers flagged an encrypted data burst originating from Simon’s private terminal to downtown Chicago. I traced it, intercepted it, and then... well, I sent a little gift of my own.”

She tapped the screen once more.

Far below on Central Park South, the sound of heavy diesel engines roared to life. A fleet of ten matte-black armored personnel carriers—stamped with the unmistakable emblem of the New York State Police and private security forces loyal to Vincent—converged on the skyscraper, completely locking down every exit for three blocks in either direction.

“Chicago brought a knife to a missile fight,” Elena smiled, turning her gaze toward Celia, who was still trembling behind the medical table. “And who’s this? The girl who saved Leo? Oh, honey, you picked the wrong night to work overtime.”

“She’s staying,” Vincent said firmly, stepping between Elena and Celia.

“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Elena purred, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the trembling waitress. “Because according to my database, Celia Jace isn't just a diner waitress from Astoria. Her mother’s medical debt wasn't paid off by a random wire transfer from a shell company... Vincent, you used your personal account.”

Celia gasped, looking up at the mafia boss. “You... you knew who I was before you brought me here?”

“I know everything about everyone who enters my orbit, Celia,” Vincent said, his expression unreadable. “That’s how I stay alive. But you... you walked into an alley that wasn't on any map, found my son when my own security detail failed, and didn’t run. Why?”

Celia swallowed hard, her fear momentarily giving way to a sudden, fiery surge of anger. She stood up, brushing the glass dust off her faded trench coat.

“Because nobody was helping him!” Celia snapped, her voice echoing off the marble walls. “I don’t care about your wars, your syndicates, your money, or your fancy suits! A little boy was dying in the dirt while men in expensive cars watched from the shadows! If you wanted a obedient little pet to interrogate, you picked the wrong waitress!”

Silence descended upon the penthouse. Even Simon stopped groaning against the piano.

Vincent stared at her, utterly stunned. For the first time in ten years, someone had yelled at the king of New York to his face—and lived to tell the tale.