The rain hit the diner windows so violently that it sounded like the entire city was being shaken apart.

The next morning, the city was cold, clear, and sharp as broken glass.

A fleet of five black armored vehicles left the Lake Forest estate at dawn, heading south toward the industrial heart of the city—the old rail yards near the Chicago River.

I sat in the middle vehicle beside Mikhail. I was wearing a new wool coat that had been delivered to my room at six in the morning, along with real leather boots that fit my feet perfectly. Nana remained at the compound under the care of three nurses and four guards, her lungs already recovering in the oxygen-rich air of the estate.

"Where are we going?" I asked, watching the gray warehouses of the Industrial District slide past the tinted windows.

"To a meeting," Mikhail said quietly. He was reviewing a series of printed reports on his lap, turning the pages with slow, methodical precision. "The Commission meets every three years to settle border disputes between the families. Today, the topic is 18th Street."

"Are you going to kill them?" I asked, the bluntness of the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Mikhail paused, his finger resting on the edge of a paper. He turned his head to look at me.

"Do you want me to?" he asked softly.

I thought about the burning stairs. I thought about Nana coughing until her chest bled. I thought about Vance tapping his bat against our booth and the cold, smooth voice in the alley threatening to turn our lives into ash.

"I want them to never come near us again," I said. "I want them to know that we aren't trash they can just throw away."

A tiny, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of Mikhail's mouth. "A good answer, Elena. Destruction is easy. Control is much harder."

The convoy pulled into a massive, converted brick distillery near the river. The area was surrounded by men in long coats holding submachine guns under their arms—O'Malley men. But as the Volkov convoy rolled to a stop, every single one of those men stepped back, their hands hovering near their belts, their faces tight with fear.

We stepped out into the biting wind. Mikhail didn't look at the guards. He walked straight through the massive oak doors of the distillery, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete floors. I walked one step behind him, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.

Inside, the distillery was arranged like a court.

At a long, iron-rimmed table sat six men—the heads of the major Chicago families. At the center sat Liam O'Malley, a thick-set Irishman with silver hair, a scarred lip, and a ring on every finger.

Standing behind O'Malley was Victor Vance, his face pale and sweating despite the chill in the room.

When O'Malley saw Mikhail walk in with a twelve-year-old girl in tow, his mouth curled into a patronizing smile.

"Mikhail," O'Malley drawled, leaning back in his high-backed chair. "You brought a child to a Commission meeting? Have you run out of soldiers on the West Side?"

Mikhail didn't smile. He walked to the head of the table, stopped, and placed his hands flat on the iron surface.

"I brought the owner of The Blue Anchor," Mikhail said, his voice cutting through the damp room like a razor. "The property your men burned on Tuesday night."

O'Malley chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "An accident, Mikhail. A rogue crew looking for protection money. We didn't know the girl had... connections to your office. I'm willing to offer two thousand dollars in compensation for the inconvenience."

Mikhail slowly reached into his coat pocket.

The entire room went dead silent. Three men behind O'Malley reached inside their jackets, but Mikhail’s personal security chief—a giant named Sergei—instantly clicked the safety off his weapon, and the room froze.

Mikhail didn't pull a gun.

He pulled out a thick, leather-bound ledger and dropped it onto the iron table with a heavy thud.

"Two thousand dollars?" Mikhail asked softly. "Liam, this ledger contains the complete tax records of every shipment your family has run through the rail yards for the past seven years. Every un-taxed container, every bribe paid to the harbor master, every illegal transfer."

O'Malley’s smile vanished. His eyes darted to the ledger, then to Vance, who looked like he was about to pass out.

"Where... where did you get that?" O'Malley growled.

Mikhail leaned down until his face was six inches from O'Malley’s.

"You thought the girl was weak because she lived in a small diner," Mikhail whispered, his voice iron-hard and lethal. "You thought she had no power. But she gave my son her only plate of food when he was lost. And in return, I spent forty-eight hours buying every single debt your lieutenants owe to the banks in Zurich."