The heavy oak doors of the great hall groaned open, carrying the heavy scent of imported cedar, pipe smoke, and the cold sweat of thirty-two terrified witnesses.

Panic detonated in the great hall like a flashbang.

Politicians scrambled over velvet chairs, their expensive suits tearing against the carved mahogany armrests. Syndicate capos reached instinctively for shoulder holsters, only to find the barrels of four automatic rifles pointed squarely between their eyes by Marco’s enforcers.

Don Moretti gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles white, his breath coming in shallow, wheezing gasps. "Lorenzo—think about what you're doing. A bloodbath in this room? The Commission will—"

"The Commission is currently receiving the exact same digital file being sent to every federal prosecutor from here to Rome," Lorenzo said, not raising his voice an inch. "Your empire didn't fall because of a war, Moretti. It fell because your daughter was too arrogant to realize that the people you step on are the ones who hold the keys to the foundation."

Isabella lunged forward, her nails clawing toward Lorenzo’s face. "You bastard! You planned this all along! You used us!"

She didn't even make it halfway.

Pino didn't bark. He didn't snarl. The 125-pound Doberman simply vaulted over the altar rail, landing with a heavy, muffled thud on the marble floor directly between Isabella and his master. He didn't touch her; he didn't need to. He simply stood six feet of pure, unadulterated muscle, teeth bared in a silent, terrifying warning, pinning the bride in her white lace against the base of the flower arrangements.

Isabella froze, her breath catching in her throat, tears of absolute rage and humiliation spilling down her painted cheeks.

"Take them out," Lorenzo commanded without looking back.

Four guards converged on Don Moretti and his daughter, lifting the aging don by his elbows and dragging Isabella backward down the long aisle, her white silk train sweeping up the dust and gravel left behind by boots that didn't belong in polite society.

As the heavy oak doors groaned open and slammed shut behind the prisoners, silence settled once more over the great hall—a silence thicker, heavier, and far more absolute than before.

Lorenzo stood alone in the center of the room, surrounded by fallen petals, overturned champagne flutes, and the fading scent of burning tallow.

From the balcony above, the soft, hesitant patter of small shoes echoed against the stone.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Lorenzo looked up. Mia was descending the grand marble staircase alone—Pino having stayed behind to guard the upper landing—her red boots tapping rhythmically against the steps, her one-eyed rabbit clutched tightly in her left hand.

She stopped three steps up, tilting her head to look down at the ruined wedding altar.

"Is the party over?" she asked softly.

Lorenzo walked to the foot of the stairs, unbuttoning the tight collar of his dress shirt and letting out a long, heavy breath that felt like shedding a skin he had worn for thirteen years.

He sat down—right there on the cold marble steps, ruining his trousers for the second time in a month—until his eyes were level with hers.

"Yes, little one," Lorenzo said, his voice losing every trace of the monster the world feared, leaving only something quiet and steady. "The party is over."