My name is Sophia Reyes. I’m twenty-six years old, and until that night, I was just another invisible housekeeper at Manhattan's luxurious Ashford Grand Hotel.

In the VIP security booth overlooking the Ocean Life Hall, Victor Moretti slammed his cognac glass onto the console desk, shattering the crystal into a hundred pieces.

"Get the car ready!" Moretti screamed at his remaining two bodyguards, his face flushed a dangerous, purple shade of rage. "Now!"

He had watched the security monitors in absolute disbelief as a twenty-six-year-old former housekeeper in an emerald dress dismantled three of his top syndicate enforcers in less than fifteen seconds. The ghost of Miguel Reyes hadn't just returned; it was standing downstairs in a high-fashion gown, waiting for him.

Moretti grabbed his heavy leather coat and scrambled toward the private service exit leading to the museum's underground parking garage.

He pushed open the heavy steel doors of the basement, his boots echoing frantically against the damp concrete floor. His sleek, armored sedan was idling near the loading dock, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

"Drive!" Moretti yelled, grabbing the handle of the rear passenger door. "Get us to the Staten Island compound!"

The rear door didn't open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Moretti barked, slapping the tinted glass. "Unlock the door!"

The front driver's window slowly rolled down.

Sitting in the driver's seat, holding a steaming paper cup of black coffee, was Alexander Ashford.

Behind him, standing in the shadows of the loading dock with their hands folded calmly over their tactical vests, were eight of Alexander's elite security operatives. Master Chen stood near the service elevator, holding his wooden staff.

Moretti stumbled back three paces, his hand reaching reflexively for the revolver inside his coat.

CLICK.

The cold barrel of a suppressed pistol pressed firmly against the back of Moretti's neck.

I stepped out from the shadow of the concrete pillar behind him, my emerald dress rustling softly against the pavement.

"I wouldn't pull that trigger, Mr. Moretti," I said gently. "My hands are much faster than your draw."

Moretti froze, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. He slowly raised his hands into the air, letting his revolver slip from his fingers and clatter onto the wet concrete.

Alexander stepped out of the Maybach, closing the door behind him with a solid, echoing thud. He walked over slowly, stopping two feet from the mob boss who had terrorized New York for thirty years.

"Six years ago, Victor," Alexander said, his voice dropping into a register so dark and cold it made the damp air feel frozen, "you sent three men to murder me in an alley. You took the life of a good man—a man whose daughter is currently holding a gun to your head."

Moretti swallowed hard, his arrogant, ruthless facade completely crumbling. "Alexander... listen to me... we can make a deal. I'll hand over the Staten Island docks. I'll give you fifty percent of the shipping revenue. Just let me walk."

Alexander didn't answer him. He looked at me.

"He's yours, Sophia," Alexander said softly, his dark eyes filled with absolute, unyielding respect. "He ordered the hit that killed your father. You decide how this ends."

The heavy silence of the underground garage pressed in on us.

I looked at the trembling old tyrant in front of me. I thought of my father, dying in the freezing rain outside the subway station. I remembered his final words, spoken as his life slipped away: 'Never use the Current for anger or revenge.'

My fingers adjusted on the grip of the pistol.

Moretti squeezed his eyes shut, trembling, waiting for the execution shot.

Slowly, smoothly, I lowered the gun. I engaged the safety catch and handed the weapon to Alexander.

Moretti opened his eyes in shock, staring at me as if I had gone mad. "You... you're not going to kill me?"

"My father didn't die to make me a murderer like you, Moretti," I told him, looking into his hollow, pathetic eyes. "Killing you is easy. Letting you watch your empire burn from a federal prison cell is justice."

Alexander smiled—a terrifying, brilliant smile. He pulled a thick manila folder from his inner coat pocket and tossed it onto the hood of the car.

"Five minutes ago," Alexander revealed, "federal agents raided your Staten Island compound. They found thirty years of tax fraud, wiretap recordings, and the original hit order for the Astoria subway shooting. You aren't going to a grave, Victor. You're going to a maximum-security prison for the rest of your natural life."

The distant, wailing sound of police sirens echoed down the street outside, rapidly approaching the museum’s underground entrance.

Two federal agents stepped out from the side stairs, pulling out steel handcuffs.

As they clamped the metal around Moretti’s wrists and dragged him away, the old mob boss looked back at me one last time, his eyes filled with a terrifying, permanent defeat.