The grip around my wrist felt like a steel vise. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and immediate, as Nicholas’s fingers tightened until my pulse throbbed against his knuckles.

The Drake Hotel was the crown jewel of Chicago’s Gold Coast—a massive, historic luxury hotel where politicians, billionaires, and high-society elite gathered. But tonight, the entire Grand Ballroom on the top floor had been rented out for a private "charity gala."

In reality, it was a summit of the Midwest Syndicate.

Over two hundred people filled the golden hall: corrupt judges, high-ranking police officials, syndicate bosses in tailored tuxedos, and wealthy investors who laundered blood money through legitimate real estate.

I stood beside the mahogany bar on the mezzanine level, wearing an emerald green silk floor-length gown that Nicholas had purchased for me that afternoon. A sparkling diamond necklace rested against my collarbone, and my hair was styled in an elegant updo. No one looking at me would have guessed that twenty-four hours ago, I was wearing blood-stained scrubs in a hospital room.

Beneath the silk of my dress, hidden against my thigh, was a compact silver derringer pistol that Viktor had insisted I carry.

"Stay calm, Clara," Nicholas’s smooth voice whispered in my ear through a microscopic earpiece. "You look stunning."

"I feel like a target," I whispered back, taking a sip from my champagne glass to disguise my moving lips. "Are you in position?"

"I’m in the VIP elevator," Nicholas replied quietly. "Vincent just stepped onto the main stage."

I shifted my gaze to the far side of the ballroom.

Standing on the velvet-draped stage was Vincent Castellano. He looked strikingly similar to Nicholas—the same sharp jawline, the same dark hair—but his eyes lacked Nicholas’s quiet authority. Vincent looked arrogant, nervous, and hungry for power he hadn't earned.

Vincent tapped his microphone, the sharp ring echoing through the grand hall, silencing the murmurs of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Vincent spoke, a sad, practiced smile touching his lips. "Distinguished guests and family members. Tonight is a night of profound tragedy... but also a night of necessary transition."

The crowd quieted down.

"As many of you know," Vincent continued, squeezing his eyes shut as if forcing tears, "my beloved brother, Nicholas Castellano... passed away early this morning at St. Jude’s Medical Center after a long, agonizing six months in a coma."

Faint gasps and murmurs of quiet sympathy rippled through the room.

"Nicholas was a visionary," Vincent said, leaning over the podium. "He built this syndicate into an empire. And in his memory, I am stepping forward to assume full leadership of the Castellano family and the Chicago Outfit. I promise to lead us into a new era of absolute power!"

The crowd began to applaud—some enthusiastically, others hesitantly, waiting to see if any rival family would object.

"A truly touching speech, brother," a deep, thunderous voice echoed through the high-grade sound system of the ballroom.

The applause stopped instantly. The entire room went dead silent.

Vincent froze, his hands gripping the edges of the podium so hard his knuckles turned white. His face drained of all color.

"What... who is that?!" Vincent stammered into the microphone, his eyes darting frantically across the balcony. "Security! Check the audio feed!"

The heavy double doors at the back of the Grand Ballroom swung open with a loud CRACK.

Through the door stepped Nicholas Castellano.

He was dressed in a pristine, custom black three-piece suit, a black silk tie, and a crisp white shirt. His posture was imposing, his dark eyes burning with lethal authority, a faint, cold smile touching his lips as he walked slowly down the center aisle of the ballroom. Behind him walked Viktor, carrying a leather briefcase.

The crowd erupted into absolute chaos.

"He's alive?!"

"Castellano!"

"Is that a ghost?!"

Bodyguards drew their weapons, but Nicholas didn't even flinch. He walked down the center carpet, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea, until he reached the foot of the stage, looking up at his terrified younger brother.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Vincent," Nicholas said smoothly, his voice echoing through the silent room. "Did you really think five bullets and six months in a hospital bed were enough to put me down?"

Vincent backed away from the podium, pointing a trembling finger at Nicholas. "He’s an imposter! Kill him! Shoot him now!"

Not a single bodyguard moved. They stood frozen, terrified of the legendary boss who had returned from the dead.

"Nobody moves!" Nicholas commanded, his voice ringing through the hall like a trumpet of judgment. "Because if anyone raises a weapon... this entire building goes down."

Viktor stepped forward, opening the leather briefcase he was holding. Inside was not a weapon—it was a high-resolution digital projector linked to a satellite transmitter.

Viktor pressed a button. A massive holographic screen projected onto the high white wall behind Vincent’s stage.

"Before you celebrate my funeral, gentlemen," Nicholas said, turning to address the gathered bosses of the five families, "let me show you how my loving brother spent the last six months."

The screen flickered to life.

It showed security footage from Room 412 at St. Jude’s Medical Center. Clear audio recorded Vincent sitting beside Nicholas’s unconscious body three weeks ago, talking to Marco.

"Is the transfer complete?" Vincent’s recorded voice boomed through the speakers.

"Almost, Mr. Castellano," Marco’s voice replied on video. "We’ve drained three hundred million from your brother’s offshore accounts. Once he flatlines tomorrow, the whole empire is yours."

"Good," Vincent’s recorded voice laughed coldly. "Inject him with another dose of the paralyzing agent. Make sure he can't move a finger until the board signs the death certificate."

The room erupted into furious shouting. The heads of the rival families looked at Vincent with pure disgust and rage. In the mafia world, killing a rival was business—but paralyzing your own boss, stealing syndicate money, and colluding with dirty doctors was the ultimate treason.

Vincent looked at the screen, panic completely consuming him. "It's fake! It’s AI! He fabricated it!"

Vincent reached inside his tuxedo jacket, pulling out a nickel-plated revolver, and pointed it directly at Nicholas’s chest!

BANG!

A shot rang out through the ballroom.

Vincent’s eyes went wide. He dropped his gun, clutching his chest as blood bloomed across his white dress shirt.