The heavy oak doors of the abandoned chapel groaned on their rusted hinges, sending a dry, echoing shriek through the vaulted interior.

The old textile mill on the banks of the Providence River loomed like a rotting skeleton in the dark, rainy night. Inside, the damp air smelled of rusted iron, rotting wood, and stale cigarette smoke.

Frankie Marcone paced back and forth across the wooden floorboards of the second-floor office, swirling a glass of cheap bourbon. His enforcers stood near the broken windows, nervously watching the dark perimeter outside.

"Where the hell is the confirmation call?" Frankie snarled, slamming his glass down on a crate. "Those amateurs should have wiped out the estate by now."

"They didn't wipe out anything, Frankie," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the top of the stairwell.

Frankie spun around, his eyes widening in sheer terror.

Dominic Marchetti stepped out of the shadows, flanked by Vince and four heavily armed enforcers. Dominic didn't look angry; he looked like an executioner. His dark overcoat was soaked with rain, and his grip on his pistol was relaxed, casual, and utterly lethal.

"Dominic," Frankie stammered, scrambling backward and reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband. "How... how are you—"

Before Frankie’s fingers could wrap around the grip, Dominic raised his pistol and fired a single shot that buried itself into the wooden floorboards directly between Frankie’s boots.

Frankie froze, a high-pitched squeak escaping his throat as he fell backward onto a stack of old shipping crates.

"You sent men to my home," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a deadly, echoing baritone as he walked slowly toward him. "You threatened my daughter. And you dared to touch what belongs to me."

"She’s just a hired hand! A fat little artisan!" Frankie shrieked, terror gripping his chest. "You can't start a syndicate war over some glassmaker!"

Dominic’s expression darkened into something demonic. He closed the distance, grabbed Frankie by the collar of his shirt, and hoisted him entirely off his feet, slamming him hard against the brick wall.

"She is not a hired hand," Dominic snarled, pressing the cold barrel of his gun directly under Frankie’s chin. "She is the only reason there is any light left in my house. And you tried to extinguish it."

"Mercy... please... Marchetti... take all my territory... take the docks..." Frankie choked out, tears streaming down his face as he clawed at Dominic’s wrists.

"I'm taking your breath," Dominic whispered coldly.

Before Dominic could pull the trigger, a sharp, clear voice echoed from the top of the stairwell.

"Dominic, stop."

Dominic paused, his gray eyes snapping toward the stairs.

Tessa stood in the doorway, breathless, wearing her heavy green coat, having followed them in her blue van all the way from the estate.

"Tessa?!" Dominic roared, absolute fury breaking through his cold exterior for the first time. "What in God's name are you doing here?! I told you to stay at the house!"

"I'm not going to let you become a murderer for me," Tessa said, walking firmly across the room, her green eyes locked onto his. She stopped just an arm’s length away, looking up at him with fierce, unshakable love. "Don't let him drag you back into the dark, Dominic. You spent nine years in the shadows. I didn't come here to watch you go back there."

Dominic stared at her, his chest heaving, the weapon still pressed against Frankie’s throat. He could feel the darkness pulling at him, the old habits of blood and vengeance whispering in his ear.

Then he looked at Tessa’s eyes—clear, warm, and filled with a future he had stopped believing was possible.

Slowly, deliberately, Dominic lowered the gun.

He dropped Frankie onto the floor like a sack of garbage, turning his back on the whimpering mobster.

"Vance," Dominic said coldly, not breaking eye contact with Tessa. "Take him to the authorities. Let the federal prosecutors handle him. Let him rot in a cell where he belongs."