The glass of the front door did not rattle when Vincent Castellano pushed it open; it simply gave way, as if the physical world itself knew better than to resist him.

The offices of Moretti & Sons Import-Export occupied the entire second floor of a brick warehouse on Delaware Avenue. It was furnished in faux mahogany, Italian leather, and the kind of aggressive modern art that cost forty thousand dollars and looked like someone had dropped a box of red paint down a stairwell.

At 9:00 AM sharp the next morning, two men in identical gray suits walked through the front doors. They did not carry guns. They carried three heavy black briefcases, a box of manila folders, and an official-looking stamp that said STATE REVENUE AUDIT DIVISION.

At their head was Amelia Hayes.

She was wearing a charcoal-gray pantsuit that cost more than her first six months’ rent in Brooklyn, her dark hair pulled back into a severe French twist that highlighted the pale scar over her eye rather than hiding it.

The receptionist, a young woman with hair the color of processed honey and a skirt so tight she could barely reach the phone, stood up instantly. "You can't go back there! Mr. Moretti is in a meeting—"

"Mr. Moretti hasn't filed a corporate franchise tax return since 2022," Amelia said, her voice clear, flat, and carrying the absolute authority of someone who had memorized every tax code between Trenton and Washington. "We are here pursuant to Section 44 of the Pennsylvania Revenue Code to conduct a comprehensive forensic audit of all incoming and outgoing manifest logs, including Pier 48."

Before the receptionist could hit the buzzer under her desk, the inner door swung open.

Rocco Moretti—a massive man with a diamond pinky ring the size of a postage stamp and a silk tie stained with marinara sauce—stepped out into the hallway. His face was purple with indignation.

"What is this bullshit?" Rocco roared, his voice shaking the drywall. "Who the hell are you?"

Amelia didn't flinch. She walked past him into his private office without waiting for an invitation, set her briefcase on his mahogany desk, and snapped the brass latches open with a sharp, metallic double-click.

"My name is Amelia Hayes. I represent the joint municipal-state receivership assigned to review non-compliant shipping entities in the Second District," she lied with breathtaking fluency. She pulled out a thick stack of papers and dropped them onto his desk right on top of his half-eaten bagel. "Starting with the four tons of stolen rail-yard copper currently sitting in Container 409 on Mr. Castellano's pier—property which, according to our serial number logs, was purchased using funds drawn from a corporate account registered in your wife's maiden name."

Rocco’s face went from purple to a sickly, mottled gray. He looked at the papers, then at the two men standing behind Amelia—former state troopers who now worked Castellano’s private security detail and looked like they ate raw steak for breakfast.

"You're... you're working for Vincent," Rocco whispered, his voice losing all its thunder.

"Mr. Castellano is a model taxpayer," Amelia said, her eyes fixed on Rocco’s with the cool, level gaze of an executioner. "Unlike certain people who seem to think the federal government doesn't know what happens when you mix copper theft with interstate commerce violations. Now. You have two choices, Mr. Moretti. You can sign this release forfeiting all claims to the Passyunk municipal sanitation contracts, or my colleagues here can call the FBI's organized crime division and invite them to inspect your warehouse for the rest of the stolen rail inventory."

Rocco looked at the pen she held out to him. His hand shook so badly the gold pinky ring clicked against the glass top of the desk.