Dominic Moretti didn't flinch when Marcus, his head of security, skidded to a halt on the wet marble of the service corridor.

The harbor house at Pier 17 was a sprawling, concrete structure built over the dark waters of the bay. Rain poured off the corrugated roof in heavy streams, mixing with the diesel fumes of idling cargo ships tied to the docks.

Inside the upper conference room, thirty men sat around a long steel table. At the head of the room stood Capo Falcone—a broad, barrel-chested man with a thick grey beard—and Lorenzo Moretti, Dominic’s ambitious second cousin.

"Dominic has gone rogue!" Falcone shouted, slamming his heavy fist onto the table, making the glasses rattle. "He locked down the estate! He’s holding Vittorio hostage in his cellar! He’s trying to purge the old guard so he can hand our shipping lanes over to the U.S. Attorney’s office!"

Murmurs of angry agreement rippled through the room. Guns were resting on tables; tension was stretched thin enough to snap.

"We move on the estate now!" Lorenzo yelled, standing up and drawing his polished chrome pistol. "We break the gates, execute Dominic for treason against the council, and put a proper leader at the head of this family!"

"A proper leader?" a voice echoed from the dark doorway at the back of the room. "Or a puppet who lets child-murderers run the docks?"

The room went dead silent. Thirty men turned toward the doorway.

Dominic Moretti stepped into the light. He wore a dark wool coat, his hair wet from the rain, accompanied only by Marcus and four senior lieutenants. He carried no visible weapons, but his posture was so utterly dominant that two younger guards instinctively lowered their handguns.

"Dominic!" Falcone barked, his hand flying to his holster. "You walk into my house uninvited?"

"This isn't your house, Falcone," Dominic said calmly, walking down the center aisle of the room without a hint of fear. "This pier was built with my father's money. It belongs to the Moretti name. A name you and Lorenzo are currently dragging through the mud."

"You poisoned your own son to create a pretext for a purge!" Lorenzo screamed, his voice cracking with panicked aggression. "We know about your deal with the federal prosecutor!"

Dominic stopped at the foot of the table. He reached into his coat, pulled out a heavy audio speaker, and placed it on the steel surface. He tapped a button on his phone.

Vittorio’s voice instantly filled the cavernous room, amplified and crystal clear:

"...It doesn't matter, Dominic! You’re too late! Falcone and Lorenzo have already mobilized the harbor guards! They know about your secret meetings... By morning, the Moretti empire will be dismantled..."

The recording clicked off.

Dominic looked around the table at the thirty capos and lieutenants. "The poison in my son’s cake was supplied by Vittorio Rossi. The plan was hatched three weeks ago in a private villa in Miami—a villa registered under Capo Falcone’s shell company."

Falcone’s face turned purple with rage. "He’s lying! That recording is fake! Shoot him!"

Not a single man moved. The capos looked between Falcone and Dominic, the weight of Vittorio’s voice still hanging heavy in the air. In the underworld, internal rivalries were accepted; targeting an eight-year-old child with poison at his own birthday party was a line that burned any man who crossed it.

"Lorenzo," Dominic said softly, turning his dark eyes onto his cousin. "You stood in my home today. You drank my wine. You smiled at my son. Did you know Vittorio was going to put venom in his cake?"

Lorenzo’s hand trembled on his chrome pistol. "I... I didn't know about the kid, Dominic! I swear! Falcone told me we were just going to challenge your leadership at the council!"

"Liar!" Falcone roared, pulling his gun.

Before Falcone could raise his sightline, a sharp, deafening shot echoed through the room.

Falcone stumbled back, a neat red hole appearing between his eyebrows. He collapsed across the steel conference table, sending papers and glass flying before hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Dominic lowered his smoking pistol, his face completely unreadable.

He looked around the room at the remaining twenty-nine men. "Is there anyone else here who believes children are acceptable targets in a business dispute?"