The steam curled around them like a living thing, thick and heavy with the scent of cedarwood and bitter almond soap.

The encrypted video file played on the massive high-definition screen in the center of the war room.

The image flickered with static before stabilizing to reveal Vincent Salvatore sitting behind a mahogany desk. He was an older man, silver-haired, with cold, reptilian eyes and a scar running from the corner of his left lip down to his jaw. Behind him stood two massive armed enforcers wearing tactical gear with the Salvatore crest emblazoned on their chests.

“Dante,” Salvatore began, his voice dry and raspy, carrying the arrogant amusement of a man who thought he held all the cards. “I hear congratulations are in order. A wedding! How touching. You take the little Valenti virgin off their hands, thinking it buys you peace.”

Dante stood motionless in front of the screen, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets, though his body was coiled like a spring ready to snap. He didn't say a word, letting the silence stretch to unnerve the older boss.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Salvatore continued, leaning forward into the camera lens. “The Valenti shipping lanes through the eastern harbor belong to my family. Your little marriage contract doesn't change the balance of power. Hand over the northern docks, and we forget about tonight’s little security breach at your fence. Refuse, and let’s just say... accidents happen to fragile little brides.”

The screen went black.

For three seconds, the war room was entirely silent. You could hear the hum of the cooling fans on the computer servers.

Then, Bruno slammed his hand on the table again, cursing in broken Italian. "The arrogant son of a bitch! He’s threatening her directly! Boss, we give the order. We wipe out his entire crew before dawn!"

Marcus looked nervously between the screen and Dante. "Boss, if Salvatore has eyes inside our staff network—which he clearly does, given how he knew about the wedding arrangements—we have a security leak."

Dante didn't answer immediately. He turned slowly away from the screen, his dark eyes sweeping across his men before finally locking onto Jamaima, who stood near the back of the room, white-faced and trembling.

"He wants the northern docks," Dante said quietly, his voice dangerously controlled.

"We can't give him the docks, boss," Marcus argued. "That’s forty percent of our import revenue. If we hand that over, every syndicate from here to New York will smell blood in the water."

"I have no intention of giving him a single square inch of concrete," Dante said coldly. He walked over to his desk, picked up his encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a single number.

"Put me through to Captain Miller," Dante ordered into the receiver.

Miller was the head of the city’s federal organized crime task force—a man the Morettis had kept on a very short, very expensive leash for over a decade.

"Miller," Dante said when the line connected. "It’s Dante. Salvatore’s men just breached my perimeter and issued a direct threat against my household. I want every single known Salvatore stash house raided under federal warrants before sunrise. Use the drug trafficking charges from the last Jersey shipment."

On the other end, Miller hesitated. "Dante, that’s a massive escalation. Raiding half a dozen properties simultaneously will start a full-scale war in the streets."

"The war started the moment Salvatore threatened my wife," Dante snapped, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying authority. "You do your job, or your pension fund disappears into the Cayman Islands by noon tomorrow. Choose."