Rain hammered the rear courtyard of the Moretti mansion when the third professional handler made the same mistake as the first two.

The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a dazzling spectacle of crystal chandeliers, gold leaf trim, and black-tie elegance.

Over three hundred of Chicago’s most powerful figures drifted across the parquet floor—senators, federal judges, city council members, and high-ranking syndicate figures, all sipping hundred-dollar champagne under the watchful eyes of covert security teams.

At 9:00 PM, the grand double doors of the ballroom opened, and a quiet hush swept through the crowd.

Roman Moretti entered the room. He looked regal in a custom black tuxedo, his dark hair brushed back, his cold presence instantly drawing every eye in the room.

But it was the woman on his arm that caused heads to turn in shock.

Emma was stunning. She wore a floor-length emerald green silk gown that clung perfectly to her curves, a simple diamond necklace sparkling at her throat. She moved with an effortless grace that betrayed none of her humble background, her chin held high, her eyes calm and observant.

Beside them, wearing a formal black leather tactical harness stamped with official service dog credentials, walked Brutus. The massive Cane Corso moved with terrifying composure, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, perfectly heel-bound to Emma's side.

From across the ballroom, Vincent Falcone stood near the velvet-draped stage. At sixty-two, Falcone was a heavy-set man with silver hair, a manicured mustache, and eyes as dead as a winter lake.

Falcone’s glass froze halfway to his lips as he saw Roman walk in—unharmed, flanked by his beautiful new advisor and the very dog Matteo was supposed to have destroyed.

"Roman," Falcone said smoothly as Roman, Emma, and Brutus approached his inner circle. "I didn't think you'd make it tonight. I heard you had... domestic issues at your estate."

"Minor pest control issues, Vincent," Roman replied, his voice carried effortlessly over the soft classical music. "The vermin have been completely eradicated."

Falcone’s jaw tightened, but he forced a fake, pleasant smile. "And who is your lovely companion? I don't recall seeing her at previous gatherings."

"This is Emma Hayes," Roman said proudly, placing his hand over Emma's hand resting on his arm. "My head of strategic operations."

Falcone looked down at Emma, a sneer tugging at his lips. "Operations? She looks more like a cocktail waitress."

Emma didn't flinch. She took a step forward, looking Falcone directly in the eyes. "And you look like a man whose offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands were compromised forty-five minutes ago, Mr. Falcone."

Falcone’s fake smile instantly vanished. "What did you say?"

"Leo," Emma said softly into her hidden earpiece. "Run the stream."

Above the stage, the massive digital projection screens that were supposed to display Falcone’s charity promotional video flickered. The soft music cut out.

Instantly, glowing spreadsheets, bank transaction logs, and encrypted wire transfers filled the twenty-foot screens. The documents clearly detailed millions of dollars moving directly from local cartels through Falcone’s charity foundation into the personal accounts of three federal judges and two city commissioners sitting in the room.

Gasp filled the ballroom. Cell phones began buzzing violently across the room as political figures scrambled to look at their screens.

"What is this?!" Falcone roared, turning to his security guards. "Shut it down! Shut those screens off!"

"It's too late, Vincent," Roman said quietly, stepping up to Falcone until they were inches apart. "The broadcast went live to the Department of Justice, the IRS, and the Chicago Tribune five minutes ago. Your political shields are gone."

Falcone’s face turned purple with rage. Losing all composure, he reached inside his tuxedo jacket for his snub-nosed revolver.

Brutus didn't hesitate.

The massive Cane Corso launched himself forward with a deafening roar, his jaws clamping firmly around Falcone’s right forearm before the gun could clear his pocket. Falcone screamed in pain as he was slammed backward onto the marble floor, his weapon skittering harmlessly across the room.