“Twenty thousand dollars isn't a fee, Donatella. It’s an investment in a woman who can make a Don bleed and stitch him back together without a single blink.”

“You thought you were the spiders weaving the web, children. But you forgot that I own the sandbox.”The elevator doors chimed and slid open with an agonizingly smooth click.

Marco Moretti walked into the penthouse as if he owned it. He was a man in his late sixties, with silver hair slicked back perfectly, a manicured beard, and eyes as cold and dead as a winter lake. Behind him, six heavily armed men flooded the room, their assault rifles raised and aimed directly at Cosimo and Donatella.

Cosimo didn't even try to reach for his gun. He was too weak to fight six men at once, and he knew it. He slowly stood up from the sofa, his posture still regal, still terrifyingly imposing despite his injury.

“Marco,” Cosimo said, his voice dripping with venom. “I see you’ve lost your manners along with your loyalty.”

“Cosimo, my boy,” Marco said, a sickeningly patronizing smile spreading across his face. “You always did have a flare for the dramatic. Hiding out in a high-rise with Antonio Rizzo’s little girl? It’s almost poetic.”

Marco’s eyes slid over to Donatella, dripping with a disgusting blend of dismissiveness and calculation. “Look at you, Donatella. You grew up quite plum. Just like your mother. A shame your father didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. He was a brilliant tailor, but a terrible conspirator.”

Donatella felt a burning fire ignite in her chest, a toxic mix of rage and adrenaline that threatened to consume her. She kept her hands in her lap, her fingers subtly slipping into the waterproof canvas bag, wrapping around the cold handle of her titanium knife.

“You killed him,” she said, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper.

“Of course I did,” Marco said lightheartedly, as if discussing the weather. “He outlived his usefulness. Just like dear old Cosimo here is about to do. You see, Cosimo, you thought your safehouse was secure. But you forgot that your own underboss, Silvio, has been on my payroll for five years. He gave me the keycard. He gave me your coordinates. By tomorrow morning, the Bellini empire will be fully integrated into mine.”

Cosimo didn't flinch. His jaw clenched, a single vein pulsing angrily in his temple. “Silvio always was a greedy bastard. But you made one mistake, Marco.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“You came here yourself,” Cosimo growled.

“I came for the ledger,” Marco said, his smile vanishing, replaced by a cold, sharp malice. He stepped closer, pointing his silver revolver directly at Donatella’s forehead. “Hand over the canvas bag, girl. Or I’ll paint this lovely marble floor with your brains right now.”

Donatella looked at Marco. Then she looked at Cosimo. In that split second, a silent, unspoken understanding passed between them. It was a language born of blood and survival.

“You want the book?” Donatella said, her voice incredibly sweet, almost submissive. She stood up slowly, holding the heavy canvas bag out with both hands, letting her head drop as if she were completely terrified and defeated. “Take it. Just please don't hurt me.”

Marco laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “That’s a good girl. Soft, just like your—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Donatella didn't hand him the bag. She violently swung the heavy canvas bag upward with all her might. The heavy iron sewing kit and tools inside the bag acted like a medieval mace, slamming directly into Marco’s jaw with a sickening CRACK.