The parking lot behind the Houseian Casino was empty at 5:51 in the morning—the hour when the city was asleep and only people with no choice were awake.

The two goons on the porch stood rigid, their breath coming out in panicked, rapid clouds. The taller one, a scarred thug named Frankie who did Moretti's dirty work in the lower wards, tried to maintain a tough facade, though his hands were noticeably trembling.

"Vance," Frankie stuttered, taking a cautious step back against the battered apartment door. "This... this ain't your block. This bitch's husband owes Mr. Moretti one hundred and twenty grand. We're just collecting what's ours."

Salvatore didn't stop walking until he was at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at them. He was unarmed, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his expensive coat, but the six heavily armed men behind him made him look like a king surrounded by his personal guard.

"Travis Hail owes the money," Salvatore corrected calmly. "Travis Hail is a coward who ran away. This woman does not owe you a single cent."

"That's not how Moretti sees it!" Frankie snapped, gaining a foolish burst of bravado. "Family pays the debt. That's the rule!"

Salvatore tilted his head, his eyes hardening into flint. "Let me explain a new rule to you, Frankie. Delia Brennan walked three miles through a blizzard to return my dog this morning. That makes her under my protection. Her debt is my debt. Her family is my family. If you touch a single lock of hair on her son's head, I won't just kill you—I will erase everything you have ever touched from this earth."

The silence on the narrow street was absolute, broken only by the hum of the idling V8 engines and the whistle of the winter wind through the fire escapes.

Inside the apartment, the door creaked open an inch. A small, pale face appeared in the gap, wide brown eyes staring out at the massive black trucks and the tall man standing on the porch.

"Mommy?" a tiny voice called out.

Delia couldn't hold back anymore. She pushed past Marco and ran up the steps, pulling the door open and throwing her arms around her seven-year-old son. She pulled him close, pressing her face into his hair, crying silently as she held him against her chest. Clara stood behind them, trembling, holding a heavy wooden rolling pin like a weapon.

"You okay, baby? Are you hurt?" Delia whispered frantically, checking Owen's arms, his face, the thin faint scar near his eyebrow.

"I'm okay, Mommy," Owen whispered, staring over her shoulder at Salvatore. "Who is that man?"

Frankie watched the emotional reunion, a bitter, desperate smirk crossing his face. He realized he was surrounded, but he also knew what Moretti would do to him if he came back empty-handed. He reached slowly toward his waistband. "Moretti isn't going to like this, Vance..."

CLACK.

Before Frankie's hand could even touch the grip of his weapon, Marco slammed the butt of his rifle directly into the side of Frankie's knee. A sickening crack echoed off the brick walls, and Frankie collapsed onto the icy concrete, screaming in agony. The second goon immediately dropped to his knees, throwing his hands over his head in absolute surrender.

"Take their weapons," Salvatore ordered smoothly, not even flinching at the sound of the breaking bone. "Throw them in their trunk and tell Moretti that if he wants to collect his hundred and twenty grand, he can come to Blackstone Boulevard and ask me for it himself."

The guards dragged the groaning men away, shoving them unceremoniously into the back of their own vehicle.

Salvatore slowly walked up the porch steps, stopping in front of Delia and her son. The terrifying crime boss suddenly melted away, replaced by a man looking down at a mother protecting her child.

He knelt on the cold concrete, bringing himself down to Owen's eye level.

"Hello, young man," Salvatore said gently. "Are you Owen?"

Owen nodded cautiously, holding tight to his mother’s sweater. "Are you the man who owns the dog?"

Salvatore smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes for the first time. "I am. His name is Barnaby. He's sitting in that truck right over there. He told me to tell you that he likes your shoelace."

Owen's eyes went wide. "You used my shoelace?" he asked, looking up at his mother.

"I did, sweetie," Delia said, wiping a tear from her cheek. "It was the strongest string I had."

Salvatore stood up and turned to Delia. "Pack your bags."

Delia blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"This apartment is compromised," Salvatore said firmly. "Moretti knows where you live. He knows who your son is. You cannot stay here another night. My estate has a guest house with five bedrooms, a fully stocked kitchen, and twenty-four-hour security. You and your sister-in-law are moving in today."

"Mr. Vance, no," Delia protested, stepping back. "We can't accept that. I told you, I don't take handouts. I earn my way."

Salvatore looked at her with a quiet, unyielding respect. "It isn't a handout, Delia. It's an employment contract. The Houseian Casino lost its Head of Environmental Services yesterday—the man who was taking Moretti's bribes to let thieves into the building. The position is open. It pays eighty thousand a year, comes with health insurance, and includes housing on my property."

Delia stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. Eighty thousand dollars. Health insurance. A safe home for Owen. It was everything she had prayed for during seven years of agonizing, brutal poverty.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

Salvatore looked down at his leather gloves, then back at her. "Because for three years, I have lived in a dark house surrounded by men with guns, waiting for my enemies to finish me off. Today, a girl with torn boots walked three miles in a blizzard to bring a piece of my daughter back to me. You reminded me that there are still things in this terrible city worth fighting for."