My brother, the most feared mafia boss in Chicago,

"Well, well, well," Victor Moretti sneered, stepping into the library with three armed enforcers flanking him. He looked at Emma holding a shotgun, then his eyes landed on Clara sitting peacefully in the armchair. "Look at what the cat dragged in. The dead man's toys."

Emma kept the barrel leveled at Victor's chest, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Take one more step, Victor, and I'll blow a hole right through your expensive suit."

Victor laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Put the toy down, little girl. Your brother is in the ground, and your little army is gone. Hand over the blind girl and the ledger, and maybe I'll let you walk out of here alive."

"You killed my brother," Emma hissed, fury blinding her to the danger.

"He stood in the way of progress," Victor shrugged, raising his pistol toward Emma. "And now—"

Before Victor could finish his sentence, Clara slowly stood up from her chair.

She didn't reach for a weapon. She didn't cower. She simply stepped forward, her unseeing eyes locked onto Victor Moretti with an intensity that made the veteran mob boss freeze mid-sentence.

"Victor," Clara said, her voice echoing in the grand library with a strange, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate the air itself.

Victor frowned, lowering his gun slightly. "What are you babbling about, freak? Get her—"

"You shouldn't have worn your grandfather's ring tonight, Victor," Clara interrupted smoothly, taking another step toward him. "It has too many memories attached to it. Especially the memory of how you poisoned your own uncle to steal his seat on the council in nineteen-ninety-eight."

Victor’s face drained of color. He staggered backward, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror. "How... how could you possibly know that? That never made the papers!"

"You didn't just kill your uncle, Victor," Clara whispered, stepping within arm's reach of him, her voice dropping into a register that sounded like a chorus of ghosts. "You killed your best friend in Italy when we were twenty. You buried him under the floorboards of a butcher shop in Little Italy. Do you want me to tell you what his last words were?"

"Shut up!" Victor screamed, raising his gun, his hands shaking so violently he could barely aim. "Shoot her! Shoot her right now!"

The three enforcers raised their weapons, but before they could pull the trigger, the library windows shattered inward.

Flash-bang grenades detonated with deafening pops of blinding white light and concussive sound. Men in tactical gear swarmed through the broken glass, pinning the enforcers to the floor in seconds.