A damp rag dragged across the laminate counter, carrying the smell of stale coffee and exhausted dreams.

Six months after the grand opening of Mave's, the bistro had become the most exclusive culinary destination in the city.

Reservations were booked three months in advance. Mayor's staff, high-court judges, foreign diplomats, and neighborhood regulars sat side by side in the velvet booths, eating prime steaks and drinking vintage wines.

Mave ran the floor with absolute authority. She was no longer just the manager; she was the heart of the restaurant. She wore elegant, form-fitting dresses that showcased her stunning curves, moving between tables with a grace and confidence that captivated every guest in the room.

And every single night, without fail, Roman Costa sat at table four—the very booth where he had first ordered a black coffee—watching his wife run her empire.

They had been married two months prior in a quiet, private ceremony on the penthouse balcony above the diner. No press, no mob grandstanding—just Roman, Mave, Marco, and a justice of the peace.

Life was perfect.

Until a rainy Tuesday evening in November.

At 9:00 p.m., as the dinner rush was beginning to wind down, the brass chime above the front door rang loudly.

A man stepped into the warm entryway, shaking rain off his expensive cashmere coat. He was tall, thin, with silver hair swept back impeccably and eyes as cold and calculating as a cobra's.

Beside him walked two heavy enforcers carrying silenced handguns beneath their coats.

The atmosphere in the restaurant instantly plummeted toward zero.

Roman stood up slowly from booth four, his slate-gray eyes locking onto the older man.

"Victor," Roman said, his voice dropping into a chilling, lethal flatline.

It was Victor Vane—Julian Vane's father, the supreme patriarch of the South Side syndicate, a man who had ruled the city's dark underbelly for thirty years before Roman's rise to power.

Victor walked slowly into the center of the dining room, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the herringbone oak floor. Guests at nearby tables began murmuring nervously, sensing the sudden, terrifying shift in the room's energy.

"Roman," Victor said, his voice smooth, raspy, like dry leaves scraping over stone. "A lovely establishment. Quite a step up from the greasy spoon my foolish son tried to burn down."

Mave stepped out from behind the host stand, putting herself between Victor and her dining room. "Can I help you, sir? We are fully booked for the evening."

Victor paused, turning his cold eyes onto Mave. He inspected her from head to toe—taking in her size-16 silk dress, her diamond wedding band, and the fierce, protective stance she took in front of her restaurant.

"Ah," Victor sneered softly. "The famous Mave. The diner girl who turned the great Roman Costa into a domesticated house cat."

Roman moved with blinding speed, stepping directly in front of Mave, his tall frame completely shielding her from Victor's gaze.

"You have ten seconds to state your business, Victor," Roman growled, his hand resting beneath his jacket. "Or I will execute you in front of these fine people and deal with the fallout later."

Victor didn't flinch. He slowly pulled a thick, wax-sealed envelope from his cashmere coat and held it out.

"I am not here to fight, Roman," Victor said dryly. "The Syndicate Council has called an emergency summit for tomorrow night at the Old Custom House. My son Julian is returning from exile to present formal charges against you."

Roman's jaw tightened. "Charges?"

"You used family resources to wage a personal vendetta over a woman," Victor explained, his lips curling into a cruel smile. "You destroyed three South Side businesses without Council authorization. The older bosses are... displeased. If you do not attend the summit tomorrow night and surrender forty percent of Fourth Street to the Vane family, the Council will declare you an outlaw."

Victor dropped the sealed envelope onto a nearby table, turned on his heel, and walked out into the rain, his two enforcers following closely behind.

The front door chimed shut.

The dining room remained dead silent.

Mave looked at the wax-sealed envelope, then reached out to touch Roman's arm. His muscles were like iron, vibrating with suppressed rage.

"Roman," she whispered softly. "What is the Syndicate Council?"

Roman turned to face her, his slate-gray eyes dark with an ancient, heavy burden.

"The Council is the tribunal that governs every family in this city," Roman explained grimly. "If they declare me an outlaw, every hitman from here to Chicago will be paid to hunt us down."