The name hung in the damp air of Abby’s basement apartment like a toxic mist.

Don Silvano Lucchesi drew his gold-plated revolver, pointing it directly at Declan’s chest. "Release him, Gallagher! The Commission ratified Thomas as Don twenty minutes ago! You have no standing here!"

"The Commission ratified a lie, Silvano," a smooth, calm voice spoke up from the back of the stage.

Abby stepped onto the elevated platform. She didn't flinch at the sight of Silvano's gun.

She opened her heavy velvet evening clutch, pulled out a stack of pristine, stamped legal documents and three encrypted flash drives, and threw them directly onto the center table in front of the elder Commission bosses.

"What is this trash?" Silvano spat.

"That 'trash,' Don Silvano," Abby said, her voice steady, powerful, and carrying across the entire silent room, "is the complete forensic financial audit of the Lucchesi family accounts in Panama."

Silvano froze. His hand trembled slightly around his gun.

"While your daughter was planning her wedding," Abby continued, taking a step toward the old mob boss, "I spent two weeks going through the waste bins of Tommy's office. He was skimming thirty percent of your maritime shipments, Silvano. He was funneling your private money into a offshore account in the Cayman Islands under his own name."

Don Silvano’s eyes flicked to Tommy, who was choking on his own blood on the floor. "Is this true?"

"Check drive number two," Abby said coolly. "It contains the wire transfer receipts signed by Tommy’s private accountant at 4:00 AM last Tuesday—ten minutes after he claimed Declan was dead."

One of the elderly New York Commission leaders plugged the drive into a tablet on the main table. Within ten seconds, columns of red figures and forged signatures filled the screen.

The senior leader looked up, his dark eyes turning cold as ice. "It's real. Thomas Gallagher was robbing the Lucchesi family while lying to the Commission."

The entire room shifted in a single heartbeat.

The captains who had supported Tommy immediately lowered their weapons. The guards backed away from the stage. Don Silvano’s face turned purple with rage. He lowered his gun from Declan and pointed it directly at Tommy’s bleeding face on the floor.

"You rat," Silvano hissed. "You stole from my blood!"

"Wait!" Tommy wept, crawling backward across the bloody stage, his refined arrogance completely destroyed. "Don Silvano, please! I can explain! It was... it was all Declan’s fault! He forced me—"

"Silence!" Don Silvano yelled.

Declan stepped forward, placing his heavy leather boot squarely on Tommy’s chest, pinning his younger brother to the floor like an insect.

Declan looked around the ballroom—at the three hundred mobsters, politicians, and police commanders who had gathered to watch his funeral.

"There is only one Don in Chicago," Declan declared, his voice cutting through the room like an iron blade. "And anyone who questions my authority, my marriage, or my wife... can step onto this stage right now."

No one moved. No one spoke.

One by one, the captains of the Chicago Syndicate dropped to one knee, bowing their heads toward Declan and Abby.

Don Silvano lowered his weapon, took a deep breath, and bowed his head respectfully to Declan. "Welcome back, Don Gallagher."

Declan looked down at Abby.

She stood beside him—soft, voluptuous, brilliant, and magnificent—the woman who had brought down an international conspiracy with her mind, her courage, and her tea tray.