The chapel doors were locked from the inside, and every man guarding them worked for the groom. My father stood beside me in the aisle, squeezing my wrist hard enough to bruise,

Even in victory, the underworld never truly sleeps.

Three weeks after our return from Europe, a confidential message arrived through our secure satellite terminal. It wasn't from a rival syndicate or a disgruntled politician. It was from an anonymous informant inside the federal prison system where Damian Vale was being held pending his final sentencing hearing.

“Damian didn't act alone,” the encrypted note read. “He was a proxy for the Syndicate Board of Chicago. They funded his expansion into the New York shipping docks. With Damian down, they’re sending a cleaner to finish what he started.”

I sat in the private study of Luca’s estate late at night, the glowing screen of the terminal casting blue light across my face.

The door opened silently, and Luca walked in, holding a glass of bourbon. He glanced at the screen, his expression hardening instantly into cold, absolute stone.

“Chicago,” Luca murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink. “They think they can step into our territory just because a local thug got locked up.”

“They don't know who they’re dealing with,” I said, standing up and walking over to the heavy oak cabinet where we kept our encrypted tactical gear and communication arrays.

“What do you want to do, Eliana?” Luca asked, stepping up behind me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders, his warmth anchoring me against the sudden chill of the threat.

I reached into the cabinet, pulling out a sleek, matte-black tactical sidearm and checking the magazine with a sharp, familiar click.

“Let them send their cleaner,” I said, looking into the dark glass of the window, seeing our reflections standing side-by-side—two predators who had carved an empire out of blood, ink, and fire. “Then let’s show Chicago what happens when you hunt a ghost.”