The neon sign of Caffè Venezia flickered against the damp autumn air of Manhattan, casting a sickly amber glow over the linoleum floor. I wiped down the counter for the fourth time that hour, my mind miles away. Columbus Circle hummed with its usual evening symphony of honking taxis, sirens, and rushing pedestrians, but none of it registered. All I could see were those dark, bottomless eyes of Alessandro Russo.

Inside, sitting on a wooden chair with her hands zip-tied behind her back and a strip of duct tape over her mouth, was Rachel. Her eyes were wide with absolute terror, bloodshot and leaking tears.

"Rachel!" I gasped, breaking away from Alessandro and rushing across the room. I ripped the tape off her mouth and worked frantically at the zip-ties with a pocket knife Marco handed me.

"Sophia?" Rachel sobbed hysterically as I pulled her into a tight hug. "Oh my god, Sophia, they grabbed me off the street, they said you were a mafia queen, I thought I was going to die—"

"You're safe, you're safe, I've got you," I whispered, tears streaming down my own face.

"We need to move," Alessandro’s voice cut through the room like a cold blade. "Rossi knows the perimeter alarms have been tripped."

Before we could reach the door, the cellar entrance flooded with bright light.

Standing in the doorway, flanked by a dozen armed men, was Don Lorenzo Rossi. In his hand, he held a heavy silver revolver, pointed directly at my chest.

"Well, well, well," Rossi sneered, his face twisted into an ugly, triumphant grin. "The stray American dog came back to die with her master. Drop your weapons, Alessandro. Or the girl with the red hair gets her brains blown across the vintage Merlot."

Rachel let out a terrified shriek, burying her face in my shoulder.

Alessandro didn't drop his gun. Instead, his posture relaxed into something terrifyingly calm. His dark eyes locked onto Rossi with the serene detachment of an executioner looking at a corpse.

"Lorenzo," Alessandro said smoothly. "You really should have checked your security protocols before inviting us over."

Rossi laughed. "What are you talking about, boy? You're outnumbered ten to one—"

Click.

The distinct, unmistakable sound of a sniper rifle charging echoed from the vaulted ceiling above the cellar stairs.

Rossi’s smile faltered. He looked up, just in time to see the laser dot of a high-powered rifle land squarely center on his forehead.

From the shadows of the upper staircase, Marco peered down, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "The perimeter isn't the only thing we breached, Don Rossi," Marco called out in a cold, mocking tone. "Your entire estate belongs to the Russos now."

Rossi’s hand shook, his finger tightening on the trigger of his revolver, desperate to take me down with him.

Alessandro didn't hesitate.

In a motion too fast for the human eye to track, Alessandro raised his pistol and fired. The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed off the stone walls like thunder.