The grand entrance hall of the Moretti townhouse smelled of floor wax, polished mahogany, and an underlying scent that I recognized all too well from hospital corridors: stale grief.

Sitting around a heavy mahogany conference table in the center of the room were forty men dressed in dark suits—the capos, bosses, and advisors representing the Five Families of New York.

At the head of the table sat Don Antonio Moretti, leaning on his gold-headed cane, sipping vintage scotch from a crystal tumbler, looking like a king preparing to claim his crown.

"Ricardo Moretti is finished," Antonio announced, his rough voice echoing off the gilded walls. "The District Attorney has issued a warrant for his arrest in the poisoning death of his wife, Elena. By the laws of the Commission, a man under federal indictment for family murder forfeits his seat."

Murmurs of agreement rippled across the room. Several older bosses nodded, their polished rings glinting under the lights.

"We take a vote now," Antonio continued, raising his glass. "I assume leadership of the Moretti territory until Ricardo is sentenced to lethal injection at Sing Sing."

"Vote denied, Uncle."

The heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open with a sound like a thunderclap.

Every boss and bodyguard in the room turned around, their hands instinctively reaching inside their jackets.

Walking down the red carpet toward the conference table was Ricardo Moretti. He looked immaculate in a three-piece black pinstripe suit, a blood-red silk pocket square in his breast pocket.

Walking beside him was me, dressed in an elegant navy velvet dress Ricardo had provided, holding four-year-old Leo by his hand. Behind us marched Dante Russo and twenty heavily armed Moretti soldiers carrying tactical gear.

"Ricardo," Antonio sneered, standing up from his chair, his eyes darting nervously toward the armed guards filling the back of the room. "You dare bring a woman and a child to a Commission tribunal? Have you lost your mind entirely?"

"I brought witnesses, Antonio," Ricardo said smoothly, stopping five feet from the head of the table.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a high-definition digital tablet, and tossed it onto the center of the mahogany table.

"Press play, Don Carmine," Ricardo ordered, looking at the oldest boss sitting to Antonio's right.

Don Carmine, a seventy-year-old mafia veteran with white hair, reached out and pressed the screen.

The video broadcast loudly through the ballroom's sound system.

It was Sarah. She was tied to a chair in a concrete basement, her face bruised, weeping hysterically, confessing into the camera in vivid detail:

"Antonio paid me! He gave me fifty thousand a month to put thallium in Elena's tea! He wanted Ricardo indicted so he could take the Brooklyn shipping docks! He ordered me to kill the boy tonight with potassium! Please, don't kill me! Here are the bank transfer records to my offshore account in Grand Cayman!"

Documents, bank statements, and wiretap transcripts began scrolling across the tablet screen automatically.

The ballroom erupted into chaos.

Bosses stood up from their chairs, shouting in outrage. Don Carmine’s face turned bright red with fury as he looked up from the screen at Antonio.

"You poisoned a boss's wife?" Carmine roared, his gravelly voice shaking the chandeliers. "You targeted a three-year-old child of the bloodline for money?!"

"It's a lie!" Antonio shrieked, backing away from the table, his gold-headed cane shaking in his hand. "It's a deepfake! Ricardo fabricated it to save his skin!"

"Check the Cayman accounts, Carmine," Ricardo said coldly, drawing a sleek silver pistol from his holster with practiced ease. "The account numbers belong to Antonio's shell company in Panama. The Commission rules are clear, Uncle. Treason against a Don is punished by blood."

Antonio’s personal bodyguards reached for their weapons, but before they could clear their holsters, Dante and the Moretti soldiers opened fire with suppressed weapons.

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

Antonio's three guards collapsed onto the red carpet instantly, dead before they hit the floor.

The remaining syndicate bosses backed away from the table, raising their hands in total neutrality, making it clear they were not going to step between Ricardo and his vengeance.

Antonio fell back into his chair, his face as white as a sheet, looking up at his nephew with pure, pathetic terror.

"Ricardo... please," Antonio whimpered, holding up his hands. "We're blood! I raised your father! You can't do this in front of the Commission!"

Ricardo stepped up to the head of the table, placing the barrel of his silver pistol directly against Antonio's forehead.

"You took my wife, Antonio," Ricardo whispered, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the ballroom. "You tried to take my son. And you made the mistake of thinking I was weak."

"Wait!" I called out from the back of the room.

Ricardo’s finger paused on the trigger. He looked back at me, his hazel eyes questioning.

I didn't tell him not to do it. I knew the rules of the world he lived in. Instead, I gently covered Leo's eyes with my hand, pulling the little boy's face against my hip so he couldn't see.

"Do it clean, Ricardo," I said quietly. "For Elena."