The rain in Chicago had a way of turning concrete to lead, hammering against the windows of Sarah Bennett’s cramped, second-floor apartment on Halsted Street.

The ink on the marriage certificate was barely dry when the hidden realities of Julian Moretti’s empire caught up with them. Though Julian had spent the last year liquidating the syndicate’s illicit assets and turning Moretti Logistics into a fully legitimate global shipping conglomerate, the old guard did not vanish quietly into the night.

It was a Tuesday afternoon in their new Miami estate when the courier arrived.

Sarah was in the sunroom, helping Lily practice her alphabet, while Leo—now a sturdy, laughing toddler—toddled across the imported marble floor chasing a yellow rubber duck. Julian was in his second-floor study reviewing port manifests when Marco knocked sharply and entered without waiting for permission.

"Boss, we have a delivery from Marseille," Marco said, placing a heavy, wax-sealed mahogany box on Julian’s desk. "It’s from the European council. They heard about your total exit from the syndicate."

Julian slit the wax seal with a silver letter opener. Inside lay a single, heavy gold signet ring bearing the crest of the Corsican brotherhood, resting upon a black velvet cushion, alongside a typewritten note: You can wash your hands in the sea, Moretti, but the salt never leaves your skin. Return the territories, or face the reckoning.

Julian didn't flinch. He picked up the heavy gold ring, weighed it in his palm, and tossed it into the nearest desk drawer as if it were a common pebble.

"Call the federal prosecutor handling the RICO sweep," Julian said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Tell him the Moretti family is ready to hand over the remaining encrypted offshore hard drives regarding the Marseilles route. In exchange, I want total immunity for my family."