A gun pressed against my temple while Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss bled out beneath my hands, and his enforcer whispered, “If his heart stops, yours stops with it.” Instead of begging, I shoved the weapon away and snapped, “Then get out of my light before you kill him yourself.”

The Chicago Cultural Center was a masterpiece of stained glass, soaring arches, and cut-crystal chandeliers. Beneath the world's largest Tiffany stained-glass dome, hundreds of Chicago’s elite—governors, judges, high-society heiresses, and ruthless mob lieutenants—sipped vintage champagne.

And standing in the center of the grand ballroom, playing the grieving uncle, was Luca Rossi.

He was sixty, immaculate in a black tuxedo, his silver hair slicked back, accepting condolences for his nephew Dante’s "unfortunate medical leave."

Beside him stood Dr. Evan Mercer, looking sweaty and nervous in a rented tuxedo, clutching a flute of champagne like a lifeline.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Luca’s booming voice echoed over the microphone as he took the podium. "In these trying times, family is everything. My nephew Dante’s absence weighs heavily on our hearts, but I assure you—the Rossi legacy remains unbroken—"

The heavy oak double doors of the grand ballroom swung wide open with a resounding bang.

The entire ballroom fell dead silent.

Walking through the entrance, side by side, was Dante Rossi and me.

Dante was magnificent. Clad in a bespoke midnight-black tuxedo that emphasized his broad shoulders and commanding height, he walked with no sling, no limp, and no mercy. His slate-blue eyes swept across the crowd like an executioner selecting his first victim.

And on his arm was me.

I wore an emerald-green silk backless gown that hugged every curve of my body, my fiery red-gold curls pinned up with diamond clips, my head held high. In my small silk clutch was not lipstick, but an encrypted thumb drive containing the scanned pages of my mother’s ledger.

Murmurs of shock and disbelief rippled through the room like wildfire.

Luca’s face went completely gray. The champagne flute slipped from Evan Mercer’s trembling fingers, shattering on the polished parquet floor.

"Uncle Luca," Dante’s voice cut through the room like a sharpened blade. He didn't need a microphone; his authority commanded the entire hall. "You look surprised to see me. Did you think your hit squad in the Loop was going to succeed where your snipers failed three weeks ago?"

Luca forced a tight, sickening smile, stepping down from the podium. "Dante... my boy! You're alive! God be praised! We heard rumors that—"

"Save the lies for your priest, Luca," Dante snarled, stepping into the center of the floor.

Dante signaled with two fingers.

Above the grand ballroom, the massive multimedia projector screens—usually reserved for showcasing charity donations—flickered to life.

High-resolution scans of Catherine Caroline’s journal filled the thirty-foot displays.

Bank transfers totaling twelve million dollars from Luca Rossi’s offshore shell companies directly into Dr. Evan Mercer’s Swiss accounts. Chemical delivery receipts for synthetic cardiac peptides. And finally, the audio recording from the bank vault’s encrypted backup system detailing the hit order placed on Antonio Rossi ten years ago.

Gasps of horror erupted across the room. Several high-ranking capos instantly stepped away from Luca, their hands dropping toward their waistbands.

"He's lying!" Evan Mercer shrieked, backing toward the service doors. "It's forged! Dante forged it!"

"Dr. Mercer," I called out, my voice ringing clear and steady through the grand hall. I stepped forward, glaring at the man who had mentored me while concealing the blood of my mother on his hands. "You swore an oath to heal. But you poisoned Antonio Rossi, and you helped murder Catherine Caroline to cover your greed. I took that same oath. And unlike you, I don't break it."

Luca’s eyes flashed with manic desperation. He realized he was backed into a corner, his empire crumbling before his peers.

"Kill them!" Luca screamed.