The moment I saw the waiter shove her face against the marble floor

Henderson didn't call security. He didn't have the chance.

Before the waiter could process the sudden, seismic shift in the room's atmosphere, Viktor’s heavy hand clamped onto the back of Henderson’s neck like a hydraulic press. With a single, fluid motion, Viktor lifted the two-hundred-pound man off his feet and slammed him face-first into the mahogany dining table.

Crystal glasses shattered. A bowl of lobster bisque erupted across a senator’s lap, soaking his silk tie in bright orange cream.

"My suit!" the senator shrieked, scrambling backward. "I am Senator Hayes! This is an outrage!"

"Sit down, Senator," I said, not even turning my head to look at him. I was kneeling beside Elena again, carefully helping her to her feet. Her left ankle was twisted; she winced as her weight hit the floor, and I caught her by the waist, lifting her effortlessly into my arms.

She gasped, her small hands instinctively catching the lapels of my charcoal suit. "What... what are you doing? Who are you?"

"I told you," I murmured, my voice softening as I looked into her face—the face I had dreamed of finding in every crowd for twenty-two years. "I'm your brother, El."

She stared at me, her eyes wide, searching my features for a lie, a cruel joke, anything to make sense of the nightmare. But the resemblance was undeniable—the sharp jawline, the stubborn tilt of the nose, the terrifying intensity in the eyes.

"No," she whispered, a tear cutting a clean path through the dirt and blood on her cheek. "No, my brother... my brother died in the river. They said the car... they said nobody made it out."

"They lied," I said quietly.

Across the room, Salvatore Moretti was slowly rising from his chair. His face had turned the color of spoiled milk, but his eyes burned with the trapped fury of a cornered animal. He reached inside his jacket, his fingers brushing the mother-of-pearl grip of a customized Smith & Wesson.

"Dante," Moretti snarled, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to sound composed. "You’ve lost your mind. You think you can waltz into my restaurant, assault my staff, and walk out because of some waitress you claim is your long-lost relative? You’re signing your own death warrant. The Commission will have your head on a spike by morning."

I gently set Elena down, leaning her against Marcus, who instantly produced a clean linen napkin to press against the cut on her cheek.

Then I turned around to face Salvatore Moretti.

I walked slowly toward his table, my leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the ruined marble. The diners around us cowered, pressing themselves against the velvet walls, terrified of being caught in the crossfire.

"The Commission, Salvatore?" I asked, stopping three feet from his chair. "Let me tell you about the Commission. Last night, at 2:00 AM, my accountant finished auditing the syndicate's shipping ports in New Jersey. Do you know what we found?"

Moretti didn't answer. Sweat was beading on his forehead, rolling down into his collar.

"We found that for the past three years, you’ve been skimming forty percent of the narcotics revenue meant for the older capos," I continued, my voice carrying clear and calm across the silent room. "You blamed the shortages on federal interdiction. You blamed the Coast Guard. But it was you. You were building a nest egg in the Caymans, weren't you?"

Moretti’s hand froze over his pistol. "You're lying. That's a fabrication—"

"Is it?" I pulled a folded manila envelope from my inner jacket pocket and tossed it onto his plate, right on top of his half-eaten filet mignon. "Those are the wire transfer receipts, Salvatore. Signed by your own hand. I sent copies to your three senior capos an hour ago. By now, they’re probably cleaning out your Staten Island safehouse."

Moretti looked at the envelope. He didn't open it. He knew the handwriting. He knew the game was over.

"You planned this," he whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. "You didn't just stumble in here tonight."

"I didn't know she would be working here," I said, and the ice in my tone dropped ten degrees. "If I had known you were employing my baby sister as a slave to scrub your floors and serve your crooked friends... I would have burned this restaurant to the ground six months ago."

I reached across the table, grabbed Moretti by the silk lapels of his suit, and dragged him across the table until his face was inches from mine.

"You touched her," I whispered. "You let your dog humiliate her. You laughed while she bled on your floor."

"Dante... please," Moretti choked out, his hands gripping my wrists. "Name your price. The docks, the real estate, the Manhattan territory—it's all yours. Just let me walk."

I smiled, letting go of him so suddenly he slumped back into his chair, gasping for air.

"I don't want your territory, Salvatore," I said, turning my back on him. "I already took it. Tonight, I'm just here for the eviction."