The man in seat 2A had less than a minute to breathe, and Evelyn Foster was the only person on the plane who noticed.

Every eye in the grand marble hall locked onto Evelyn.

For a brief second, the sheer weight of six powerful, dangerous mob bosses staring at her made her breath catch in her throat. But then she remembered the woman in the bathroom, the sniper shots on the Shannon tarmac, and the threat against her innocent sister.

Evelyn took two firm steps forward, standing directly beside Antonio.

“On Thursday evening, at two-fifteen AM GMT,” Evelyn spoke, her voice clear, confident, and ringing with absolute clarity across the room, “Mr. Antonio Vitelli experienced acute respiratory failure in seat 2A. As the lead crew member on duty, I administered emergency oxygen and epinephrine from the aircraft's standard medical supply.”

She pulled a high-grade digital tablet from her small leather clutch, holding it up so the six regional bosses could see the screen.

“This is the official digital log from the aircraft’s black-box medical telemetry system,” she continued, pressing play. A digital graph displaying Antonio’s spiking heart rate and rapid recovery illuminated the dimly lit room. “Mr. Vitelli did not suffer a cardiac arrest. He suffered an acute toxic shock caused by a rare nerve agent.”

Mateo, the boss from Marseille, stepped closer to the table, staring at the telemetry data. “A nerve agent?”

“Placed inside his private medical kit in New York,” Evelyn said, turning her piercing gaze directly onto Victor. “A kit that was packed exclusively by Victor Vitelli’s personal physician twenty-four hours before departure.”

“She’s lying!” Victor bellowed, sweat pouring down his forehead, soaking his silk collar. “She’s a paid actress! Antonio bought her off to stage a coup against me!”

“Is that so, Victor?” Antonio said softly. He gestured to Marco.

Marco pressed a button on a remote control. The giant wall-mounted screen at the end of the dining hall flickered to life.

An audio file began to play.

“Find the flight attendant before Vitelli wakes up,” Victor’s recorded voice echoed through the hall speakers, crystal clear and undeniable. “If she talks to the Irish police, kill her and her sister. I don't care how many bodies it takes. Antonio must stay dead.”

The six regional bosses looked from the screen back to Victor, their faces darkening into cold, unforgiving stone. In the syndicate’s ancient charter, trying to murder a family boss was a crime—but targeting an innocent civilian and risking the entire organization’s exposure to federal law enforcement was treason punishable by death.

Mateo slowly reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a heavy gold signet ring—the traditional voting token of the syndicate’s senior council.

He slammed it down onto the mahogany table.

CLANG.

“Victor Vitelli,” Mateo announced, his voice dark and heavy with finality. “You have violated the sacred charter of the family. You have brought shame, dishonor, and federal risk to this table.”

One by one, the other five regional bosses pulled out their gold signet rings, slamming them onto the table in rapid succession.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Unanimous conviction.

Victor backed up against the marble fireplace, his eyes wild with desperate, cornered terror. “You can't do this to me! I built this family! I own half of New York!”

“You own nothing, Victor,” Antonio said, stepping into the space between them. “Your assets are frozen. Your men have surrendered. And your life is forfeit.”

Victor suddenly reached into his ankle holster, pulling a compact snub-nosed revolver with shocking, frantic speed. “If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me, Antonio!”

He aimed the barrel straight at Antonio’s chest.

Evelyn reacted without thinking. “Antonio!” she screamed, throwing her weight violently against Antonio’s shoulder, shoving him out of the direct line of fire.