The heavy mahogany door swung shut with a muted thud that sounded like a gavel falling on a death sentence.

Sal Valenti didn't rise from his seat, but his fingers drummed a slow, arrogant beat on the green felt of the poker table. Beside him, three armed guards shifted their weight, their hands tucked inside their leather jackets.

“Vincent,” Valenti purred, raising an eyebrow. “Didn't expect you in Queens tonight. Usually, you send messengers when you want to talk to the lower boroughs.”

Vincent ignored him completely. He didn't even look at the man. His eyes were locked on his son.

“Get your coat, Evan,” Vincent said.

Evan laughed—a hollow, theatrical sound that echoed off the damp brick walls. He took a long drag from his glass, slammed it down so hard the crystal cracked, and leaned back against the red velvet booth.

“Why? Is there another board meeting I’m supposed to sit through while she rewrites my proposals?” Evan pointed a trembling, rag-wrapped hand at me. “Or are you here to give her another promotion, Dad? What’s the title this time? Senior Vice President of Breaking My Fucking Heart?”

The room went dead silent. The card dealers froze. Two dozen syndicate foot soldiers stopped their conversations, watching the Marlowe dynasty tear itself apart in the middle of enemy territory.

I stepped forward before Vincent could stop me.

“Evan,” I said, keeping my voice low, steady, and stripped of anger. “Look at me.”

His jaw worked furiously. For a second, beneath the booze and the wounded pride, the boy I had spent two years having dinner with surfaced. The boy who was terrified he would never be half the man his father was.

“You have every right to despise me,” I said, taking another step toward the booth. “I lied to myself, and because of that, I lied to you. You deserved an honest answer in private, not a public humiliation. That was my cowardice, Evan. Not your father’s. Mine.”

“You think this is about the party?” Evan spat, though his voice cracked at the edges. “You think I care that some drunken judges saw me get turned down? You sat across the kitchen island in my loft, Claire! You drank my coffee. You listened to me talk about the shipping hubs I wanted to build. And the whole damn time, you were looking past me to see if he was in the room!”

Every word hit like a physical blow, because every word was true.

“You’re right,” I whispered.

Evan blinked, caught completely off-guard by the admission.

“You’re right,” I repeated, my voice steady despite the tremor in my chest. “I admired your energy. I wanted to believe that what you offered was enough for me. But it wasn't. And if I had taken that ring last night, Evan, in five years you would have hated me ten times more than you hate me right now, because you would have realized that half my soul was somewhere else.”

“With him?” Evan sneered, looking at his father with venomous disdain. “He doesn't have a soul, Claire! He’s a machine! He buried my mother on a Tuesday and was back at the harbor negotiating container rates on Thursday morning!”

“Evan,” Vincent’s voice cut through the air like a butcher’s blade.

It wasn't loud, but the sheer, glacial authority in it made even Valenti sit up straighter.

Vincent took two slow steps toward the table. The armed guards around Valenti reached for their holsters, but Marcus Vance instantly stepped into the light behind Vincent, an automatic pistol leveled with casual lethality at the center of the room.

“You will speak to Claire with respect,” Vincent said, his slate eyes boring into his son. “And you will not use your mother’s memory as an excuse to make deals with vermin.”

Valenti’s face darkened. “Watch your mouth, Marlowe. You’re sitting in my house.”

“You don't have a house, Sal,” Vincent replied without looking at him. “You have a lease on a condemned warehouse that my holding company purchased through a subsidiary at three o'clock this afternoon.”

Valenti froze. His grin vanished, replaced by an ugly, mottled gray. “You’re bluffing.”

“Check your email,” Vincent said coldly. “You have forty-eight hours to vacate the premises, or the port authority will bulldoze the foundation with your inventory inside. Now get up from that table and get out of my sight before I decide to accelerate the eviction.”

Valenti stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. “You think you can come into Queens and dictate terms to me? You brought your girl and your broken-down security guard into my room, Marlowe!”

Valenti whistled sharply.

From the darkened shadows near the freight elevators, four more men emerged, carrying heavy short-barreled shotguns.

The temperature in the room vanished. The air smelled suddenly of cordite, rain, and imminent death.

Evan scrambled backward into the booth, suddenly realizing the horrific reality of the corner he had backed himself into. “Sal… what the hell is this? We had a deal regarding the fuel depot.”

“The deal was good when you were the heir, kid,” Valenti sneered, his eyes darting toward Vincent. “Now you’re just dead weight, and your old man just walked into my parlor without an army.”

Vincent didn't flinch. His hand slipped smoothly inside his coat.