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.

The fire in the study crackled, throwing long, erratic shadows across the bookshelves that held centuries of unrecorded history.

Vincenzo did not sit. He walked slowly to the leaded glass window, looking down at the courtyard where a lone gardener was pruning the frost-bitten hydrangeas. "Word in the capitals is that you dismantled Moretti in a single afternoon. Clean. No bodies in the harbor, no smoke on the horizon. Just a digital file and a locked door. You're getting soft in your old age, boy."

"I’m getting efficient," Lorenzo replied, pouring two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a heavy crystal glass. He didn't offer one to Vincenzo. "Moretti thought he could buy my house from the inside. He used a bitter housekeeper to plant a false trail. A child almost paid for his ambition."

Vincenzo turned slowly, his sharp eyes narrowing. "A child. That’s what the reports whispered. A maid’s brat. And you threw away a multi-million-dollar merger, a political alliance, and forty years of syndicate tradition for a girl who doesn't even share your bloodline."

"She shares the air in this house," Lorenzo said quietly. His voice wasn't loud, but the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "And anyone who thinks they can alter the air here finds out what happens when the foundation shifts."

Vincenzo let out a dry, rattling laugh. "You think you’re untouchable because you traded your guns for ledger books and flower gardens? The Commission doesn't care about your ledger, Lorenzo. They care about stability. And a mafia boss who adopts a servant's child is a weak boss. A weak boss invites a vacuum."

"Let them try to fill it," Lorenzo said, sliding the glass of whiskey across the mahogany desk—not toward Vincenzo, but leaving it dead center. "Tell the Commission that the Duca estate is closed for business. Permanently."

Vincenzo stared at the glass for a long moment, then looked up, his expression hardening into something dangerous. "They won't take 'closed' for an answer, Lorenzo. They’re already moving assets into the northern ports. And they know about the West Pavilion. They know where the maid sleeps."

Lorenzo’s hand tightened around the stem of his glass until the knuckles turned white. Before he could speak, a sharp, frantic scratch echoed against the heavy oak study door.