The hospital room smelled of chemical antiseptic and rain. At 9:15 AM, while Lucien Moretti was still sipping espresso on a Sicilian terrace thousands of miles away, Serena signed the final medical discharge documents.

The fallout in New York was swift and violent. Without Lucien’s full attention on syndicate operations, cracks began to show in the Moretti empire.

Rival factions in Chicago and Boston sensed weakness. Shipments were delayed; police raids mysteriously targeted secondary warehouses; and whispers circulated through the underworld that the untouchable Lucien Moretti had been brought low by a woman.

In the downtown penthouse, Lucien sat in the dark, surrounded by monitors tracking flight manifests, cellular pings, and bank statements across three countries. Nothing. Serena had scrubbed her digital footprint clean. She hadn't used her credit cards, hadn't contacted old friends, hadn't even accessed her personal accounts.

Marco entered the study, his face grave. "Boss, the Savino family is moving on our Brooklyn docks. They think we’re distracted."

Lucien didn't look up from his monitors. "Burn them."

"Sir?"

"Burn the docks to the ground," Lucien repeated, his voice devoid of hesitation. "If the Savinos want my territory, let them take ash. I am not fighting for shipping lanes right now, Marco. I am hunting my family."

Marco hesitated, then nodded. "Understood."

As Marco turned to leave, a red alert flashed on Lucien's secondary encrypted terminal—a notification from a private investigator he had hired to monitor black-market pediatrician registries in remote northeastern postal codes.