The first thing I noticed was not the flowers. Not the grieving parents in the front row. Not the tiny white coffin resting beneath soft lights,

The meatpacking plant in Long Island City had been out of operation for three years, but the iron hooks hanging from the ceiling still smelled of dried blood and industrial bleach.

Marco Ricci was tied to a heavy wooden chair beneath a single swinging lightbulb. His lip was cut, his nose swollen from Sal’s preliminary questioning, but his eyes were still bright with the desperate, cunning instinct of a cornered rat.

The heavy steel door creaked open.

I walked in slowly, my leather shoes clicking against the cold concrete. Bruno walked at my heels, his massive chest broad, his ears pinned back in an aggressive, predatory posture. The dog didn't make a sound. He didn't need to.

When Marco saw Bruno step into the pool of yellow light, his breath hitched. He tried to pull his wrists against the thick duct tape binding him to the chair.

"Dominic," Marco stammered, coughing up a fleck of blood. "Dominic, listen to me. We were brothers, man. Twelve years! I helped you build this empire!"

I pulled a metal folding chair from the corner, set it up five feet in front of him, and sat down. Bruno lay down beside my right knee, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Marco’s throat.

"You sold my cousin Carlo out to Harlan three years ago," I said calmly.

Marco’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes darted toward the shadows.

"I wondered how Harlan’s shooters knew exact route Carlo was taking through East New York," I continued, taking a cigar from my coat pocket and lighting it with a silver Zippo. "I thought it was a wiretap. I thought it was a loose-mouthed corner boy. But it was you."

"That’s a lie!" Marco yelled. "Harlan framed me! He’s trying to tear us apart from the inside, Dominic! You know how he works!"

"Bruno knew Carlo," I said softly, blowing a thick ring of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "The night Carlo died, Bruno smelled the shooter on Carlo’s coat. When we walked into that funeral home today, Bruno didn't just smell the child. He smelled the same cologne, the same gunpowder, the same betrayal on you that he smelled three years ago."

Marco stared at the dog. Sweat poured down his neck, soaking his ruined silk collar.

"Tell me about the girl, Marco," I said, my voice dropping into a register of terrifying quiet. "Why was Victor Harlan moving children through my docks?"

Marco closed his eyes, his chest heaving. He knew there was no way out. The dog had convicted him, the child was alive, and the Don of Queens was sitting five feet away with a Zippo in his hand.

"Harlan... Harlan opened a new line six months ago," Marco whispered, his voice cracking. "High-end international buyers. Politicians, foreign executives, sick billionaires. They pay fifty grand a head for clean kids with no records. He needed my clearance at Pier 42 because your guards check every shipping container."

"And you took his money," I said.

"He promised me fifty percent of the docks!" Marco cried out, tears cutting clean streaks through the dirt on his cheeks. "You were getting soft, Dominic! You were turning down millions because of your stupid morality! 'No drugs, no kids, no human cargo'—we were losing ground to Brooklyn and Harlem every single month!"

I stood up slowly.

"I built this family on honor," I said. "When you take that away, we aren't a family anymore. We're just street rats eating each other in the dark."

"I didn't mean for the girl to die!" Marco sobbed. "She was behind her father's restaurant when the container truck backed up! She took a picture with her phone! I tried to grab her phone, she ran into the street, and Harlan’s driver hit her!"

"And the medical examiner?" I asked.

"Dr. Adler," Marco confessed, trembling. "Harlan pays him fifty grand a month. Adler used the toxin so there wouldn't be an autopsy. Autopsies leave paper trails. A quick funeral, six feet under, and the problem vanishes forever!"

I looked down at Marco for a long moment. Then I reached into my coat and pulled out my heavy suppressed pistol.

"Dominic! Please!" Marco screamed, thrashing against the chair. "I have a family! I have children!"

"Elena Vasquez had a father," I replied softly.