The silk robe was still hanging on the back of the armchair in the grand study, leaving behind a heavy trail of Bulgarian rose perfume. Valentina was gone, but her disappearance spoke louder than any confession.

The harbor was a graveyard of rusted shipping containers, decaying cranes, and dark warehouses. High above the water sat an old brick administrative building, illuminated by a single floodlight.

Rocco walked up the metal staircase alone, wearing a long black coat over his tactical vest. In his right hand, he carried a heavy steel briefcase containing the family’s offshore bank codes—the precise prize his father and the Valenti family had sought for years.

In his left hand, he carried the silver pistol that had belonged to his mother.

He kicked open the heavy double doors of the top-floor warehouse.

Inside, tied to a wooden chair beneath the single overhead light, sat Isabella.

Her dark hair was streaked with silver, her face pale and thin, but her eyes were open. She looked frail, like a phantom brought back into the light. Beside her stood Don Antonio Moretti—Rocco’s father—looking impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, looking remarkably healthy for a dead man.

Beside Antonio was Don Valenti, the ruthless boss of the northern syndicate, flanked by eight heavily armed mercenaries.

"You actually came alone," Antonio said, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. "I see you still have a flare for the dramatic, Rocco."

"Release her," Rocco said, his voice flat and lethal.

"Not so fast," Don Valenti interrupted, stepping forward with his hand resting on his gold-plated sidearm. "The codes first, Rocco. The key to the Moretti Swiss reserves. You transfer the eleven billion dollars to our joint account, and you walk out of here with your broken wife."

Rocco looked past them, locking eyes with Isabella.

For eight long years, he had believed her voice was gone forever.

Isabella’s lips trembled. She looked at Rocco, her breath hitching in her throat. "Rocco..." she whispered, her voice dry and raspy from years of forced sedation. "The... the child... did he survive?"

Tears welled in Rocco’s eyes, but he kept his composure, keeping his gun aimed steady. "He survived, Isabella. Leo is alive. He’s safe. He has your eyes."

Tears streamed down Isabella’s pale cheeks as she let out a soft, relieved sob.

"Enough of this soap opera!" Antonio snapped, tapping his silver cane against the concrete floor. "Hand over the briefcase, Rocco. You were a good placeholder boss for eight years, but your time is over. The syndicate needs real leadership again."

"You traded your grandson for a balance sheet," Rocco said, staring at his father with pure disgust. "You faked your death, let my wife rot in a drug-induced coma, and put an infant in a trash bag. You aren't a leader, Antonio. You're a parasite."

Antonio’s face hardened. "Kill him," he commanded the mercenaries.

Before the men could raise their weapons, a sharp ping echoed through the building.

The overhead lights went completely black.

Emergency sirens began to blare across the entire shipping yard.

From the shadows of the high rafters above, a child’s voice resonated through the dark warehouse via the facility’s loudspeaker system: