Nora scrubbed floors with a child growing inside her, almost entirely unnoticed by the people around her. Elsewhere in the same house sat a silent old man in a wheelchair, mocked, neglected, and treated as though he no longer mattered. What the staff did not know was that the forgotten man still held the invisible strings of the city's deadliest Mafia empire.

The subterranean vehicle garage beneath the Manhattan estate was a cavernous, dimly lit labyrinth of concrete pillars and shadows. The emergency red strobe lights were already pulsing against the rough walls, casting an eerie, bloody glow over the fleet of armored black town cars parked neatly in their stalls.

Dominic and I moved silently through the shadows behind a row of concrete reinforcement columns, our footsteps entirely muffled by the thick rubber tactical boots we wore. Dante Moretti and four of his most elite security operatives were stationed near the primary vehicle elevator shaft, their weapons raised and ready.

A low, mechanical rumble echoed from deep within the concrete floor.

The heavy steel doors of the vehicle elevator began to slide upward, groaning in protest as they parted.

Four figures materialized from the descending platform, clad in matte-black tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns. They moved with professional, military-grade precision, scanning the dim garage with infrared scopes. They clearly believed the internal security grid had been successfully disabled by their anonymous Sicilian handler.

They stepped off the platform and fanned out, moving toward the private residential stairwell.

"Now," Dominic whispered.

*Bang. Bang.*

Two deafening cracks of gunfire shattered the silence of the garage. The lead tactical operative took a direct hit to the chest, spinning backward before collapsing hard onto the polished concrete.

Chaos erupted instantly. The remaining three intruders scrambled for cover behind a concrete pillar, unleashing a wild, deafening volley of suppressed gunfire that chipped concrete dust into the air all around us.

"Flank right!" Dante shouted over the roar of gunfire, leading two operatives in a sweeping tactical arc through the shadows.

I pressed my back hard against the cold concrete pillar, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs. I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, took a deep, steadying breath, and forced my breathing to slow down, channeling every ounce of my fear into pure, laser-focused survival.

One of the Sicilian operatives broke cover, sprinting toward my pillar with his submachine gun raised.

My eyes snapped open. I stepped out from behind the concrete, raised Dominic’s tactical sidearm with both hands, and pulled the trigger.

*Bang.*

The bullet struck the operative squarely in the shoulder. He cried out in agony, dropping his weapon as he crashed heavily against the side of a parked town car. Before he could recover, Dante materialized from the shadows behind him, delivering a swift, brutal butt-stroke to the back of the man's helmet that instantly rendered him unconscious.

Within ninety seconds, the firefight was over. Three intruders were unconscious on the floor; the fourth lay dead near the elevator shaft. Not a single Cray security operative had sustained a scratch.

Dominic walked slowly across the concrete floor, stepping over a discarded assault rifle, his face carved from dark obsidian. He crouched down beside the conscious Sicilian operative groaning against the town car, grabbed him by the tactical vest collar, and hoisted him effortlessly to his feet.

"Who sent you?" Dominic demanded, his voice dangerously low.

The man spat a bloody glob onto the concrete, laughing hysterically through cracked lips. "You... you think it ends with us, Cray? The Syracuse council... they know about the boy. Even if we die tonight... others are already moving on the Upstate estate."

Dominic’s eyes widened slightly in sudden, terrifying realization.