For twenty years, the city of Chicago had learned to speak the name Alejandro Moretti in hushed, careful tones.

The ballroom on the top floor of the Grand Plaza Hotel was a monument to old-money decadence. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, shedding warm golden light onto fifty of the most powerful criminal bosses, politicians, and syndicate captains in the Midwestern United States.

At the center of the raised mahogany stage stood Victor Rossi. He was wearing a bespoke charcoal suit, a red silk tie, and a somber, perfectly rehearsed expression of tragic grief.

"My brothers," Victor’s amplified voice echoed through the silent ballroom speakers as he leaned into the microphone. "It is with a heavy heart that I address you tonight. Two hours ago, a devastating explosion gutted the Moretti estate. Our beloved leader, Alejandro Moretti... is dead."

A collective murmur of shock and hushed speculation rippled through the gathered crowd of captains.

Victor raised his hands, feigning solemnity. "We do not yet know who ordered this cowardly attack. But in accordance with syndicate law, a house cannot remain without a king. As consigliere, I am stepping forward to take the mantle of supreme command until—"

BOOM.

The massive double doors at the back of the ballroom shattered inward in a blinding flash of white light and thunderous sound.

Concussion grenades detonated across the room, knocking the front row of captains flat onto their faces. Smoke filled the room instantaneously, cutting off the golden light of the chandeliers.

Panicked screams broke out. Men reached for concealed weapons, but red tactical laser sights were already cutting through the thick smoke, painting the foreheads of Victor’s private security team.

"DON'T MOVE! DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" Dante’s contractors roared, dropping four of Victor’s bodyguards in a flurry of silenced gunfire before they could even draw their pistols.

Through the rolling white smoke, a single figure emerged.

Black combat boots. Heavy body armor. No mask.

The room went deathly silent as the smoke cleared enough for the gathered syndicate bosses to see my face.

Victor staggered back against the podium, his face turning the gray color of wet ash. "No... no, it's impossible... you were inside..."

"You always were a terrible tactician, Victor," I said, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings like thunder. I walked slowly down the central aisle, my assault rifle resting loosely in my hands. "You send twelve men to do a job that required an army."

"Alejandro!" old Don Carmine screamed from his table, scrambling backward in terror. "He told us you were dead!"

"Victor lied to you," I said, stopping ten feet from the stage. "Just like he lied five years ago when he helped orchestrate the attack on my late wife."

Victor’s eyes darted frantically toward his remaining two bodyguards, but Dante Vane was already standing on the stage behind them, the cold barrels of two suppressed pistols resting against the backs of their necks.

"Drop them," Dante ordered. The two guards slowly lowered their weapons to the floor.

Victor was trapped. He was standing alone on the illuminated stage, surrounded by the very men he had attempted to fool ten minutes prior.

"You can't kill me here, Alejandro!" Victor stammered, sweating profusely, his calm demeanor completely shattered. "The commission rules! You can't execute a consigliere without a formal trial!"

"The commission rules apply to men," I said, stepping onto the stage stairs. "Not to traitors who hunt children."

Victor’s eyes widened in realization. He realized that I knew everything—not just about the coup, but about his plan for my four sons.

"Alejandro... wait! Listen to me!" Victor begged, dropping to his knees as I reached the podium. "I did it for the family! You were weak! You were spending all your time hiding in that empty mansion, mourning a ghost! The syndicate was falling apart!"

"My wife died protecting my blood from parasites like you," I said softly, stepping directly in front of him.

I raised my hand, placing the barrel of my weapon against his forehead.

"Please," Victor whimpered, tears mixing with the sweat running down his face. "Please, Alejandro... think of the legacy..."

"I am thinking of my legacy," I whispered. "They're four years old. And they're safe."

BANG.

The gunshot echoed through the silent ballroom. Victor Rossi collapsed onto the red carpet of the stage, his reign ended before it had ever begun.

I turned around, looking out over the stunned, terrified faces of the fifty syndicate bosses standing in the smoke-filled room.

"Victor Rossi is dead," I declared, my voice cutting through the absolute quiet like a blade. "His assets are seized. His men are hunted. If anyone else in this room ever speaks the name of my family again... I won't send an army. I will come for you myself."