Three-year-old Mia Bennett claimed my leather chair, declared herself the undisputed boss

By dawn, the coastal fog clung thick to the Montauk cliffs, wrapping the glass-and-slate house in a veil of gray.

I left Elena and Mia under the watchful eye of a private contractor named Marco—a former Navy SEAL whose loyalty had been bought and proven across a decade of silent maritime operations. Marco sat in a blind near the driveway with a suppressed rifle, invisible to anyone who might stumble upon the cove.

“If anyone approaches who isn't me,” I told Marco before departing, “you shoot to kill, extract them via the boathouse, and head for the open sea.”

“Understood, Mr. Moretti,” Marco answered without a flicker of emotion.

I took an unmarked sedan from the subterranean garage and drove into Manhattan. The city was waking up to gray drizzle and gridlocked traffic, completely oblivious to the war that had erupted along the Gold Coast the night before.

My phone, a burner picked up at a gas station along the Long Island Expressway, buzzed on the passenger seat.

I answered without speaking.

“Boss?” Daniel’s voice came through, raspy, heavy with exhaustion.

“Status,” I commanded.

“I took a round to the left shoulder, through and through,” Daniel reported, breathing hard. “Tony patched me up at a safe clinic in Astoria. We stacked eight of Vane’s men in the foyer before the rest scattered when the county sirens started screaming. The estate is a crime scene. State troopers are everywhere.”

“Did you identify the bodies?”

“Ex-contractors from an offshore firm based out of Newark. All hired guns,” Daniel said. “Luca, there was a mole. The reason they bypassed the southern gate sensors was because someone manually routed the power feed through an internal bypass switch in the accounting annex.”

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until the leather groaned. “Vincent.”

“I didn't want to believe it,” Daniel muttered, the heartbreak evident in his rough voice. “Vincent was our uncle. But after you suspended him yesterday, he panicked. He went straight to Sal Vane to broker an immunity deal for himself using the old manifests. Vane used him to get the gate codes, then shot him behind an abandoned warehouse in the Meadowlands.”

Vincent was dead. The man who had balanced my father’s ledgers, the man who had handed me my first fountain pen when I took over the company. Betrayal always tasted like copper and cold iron.

“Where is Vane now?” I asked.

“He knows about the Grand Central locker,” Daniel warned. “Vane’s crew intercepted Vincent’s personal notebook before they dumped his body. Vincent had written down the serial number Elena blurted out during their argument two days ago. Vane’s men are staking out the terminal right now.”

“Let them watch,” I replied, checking my mirrors as I took the Queens-Midtown Tunnel exit. “I’m five minutes out.”

“Boss, wait for backup! I have six men ready to roll—”

“No,” I cut him off. “A crowd will spook him into hiding. Vane wants the drive to bury his past. I’m going to hand it to him myself.”

I hung up, discarding the burner phone out the window into a storm drain.

Ten minutes later, I walked through the grand arches of Grand Central Terminal, clad in an unassuming dark trench coat, a flat wool cap pulled low over my brow. Thousands of commuters brushed past me, rushing toward subway lines and suburban trains under the celestial constellation painted across the towering turquoise ceiling.

I moved toward the western locker bank, my senses dialed to absolute maximum.

I spotted Vane’s spotters immediately.

Three men in oversized commuter jackets stood near the information booth, their eyes darting across the crowd, scanning faces, hands buried inside their pockets. Across the mezzanine, leaning against a marble pillar, stood Sal Vane himself.

Vane had aged. His hair was stark white, his face weathered like cracked saddle leather, but his cold, reptile eyes hadn't changed in twenty years. He was flanked by two massive enforcers wearing tailored overcoats designed to conceal automatic weapons.

I didn't sneak. I walked straight down the center aisle, directly toward locker seven-two-four.

The spotters reacted instantly, moving in a coordinated pincer movement.

“Moretti,” a voice grated from behind me.

I stopped in front of the locker bank, turning slowly. Sal Vane stepped forward, flanked by his two heavies, a cruel, triumphant smirk curling his thin lips.

“You’ve got your father’s arrogance, Luca,” Vane sneered, keeping his voice low enough to avoid alerting the transit police twenty yards away. “Walking into my crosshairs with nothing but a trench coat.”

“You killed an old accountant, shot up my home, and frightened a little girl, Sal,” I said, my voice completely devoid of fear. “You haven't changed. Still fighting wars with cheap ambushes because you lack the stomach for real power.”

Vane’s eyes flared with vicious fury. “Where is the key, boy? Give me the drive, and maybe I let your housekeeper live long enough to bury you.”

“The key is right here,” I said, pulling the brass key from my pocket and holding it up between two fingers.

Vane nodded to his right-hand enforcer. “Take it.”

The enforcer stepped forward, reaching out a beefy hand.