The silence that fell over the courtyard could have cracked glass. Three hundred elites of the New York underworld—men who moved millions in stolen cargo and controlled dockworkers with a single glance—sat frozen in their gilt chairs. White roses hung from the arches like mock-innocent ornaments.

"Please..." Vance whispered, dropping to his knees on the concrete, abandoning all pretense of bravado. "We're partners... we could share the empire—"

"You killed my father twenty-five years ago," I said quietly, the words cutting through the tense silence of the warehouse like a razor. "You used my cousin, you manipulated my bride, and you tried to burn my home to the ground. There is no partnership with a dead man."

I pulled the trigger.

Bang.

The single, suppressed gunshot echoed sharply off the metal walls. Vance slumped forward, hitting the concrete floor with a heavy, final thud.

Around the table, the Marseille lieutenants dropped their weapons simultaneously, raising their hands in surrender.

"Clear the warehouse," I ordered Sophia, stepping back from the body. "Round up the lieutenants, secure the financial ledgers, and notify our loyal captains in Brooklyn and Queens that the housecleaning is officially complete."

Sophia nodded, signaling the tactical backup team waiting outside to secure the perimeter. She walked over, pausing beside me for a brief, silent moment.