On Christmas Eve in Boston, the Belrose Grand pays double, so Elena Carter brings her little daughter along as she works a shift serving champagne. “Mommy, when can we go home for Christmas?” the girl asks—unaware that a mafia boss is listening, growing troubled by what he hears.

The first bullet fired by Vince’s lieutenant clipped the concrete pillar two feet to Dante’s left, but Dante was already gone from that spot, sliding low across the slick floor.

*Bang. Bang.*

Two precise, suppressed shots echoed through the warehouse. The two closest guards dropped their weapons and hit the concrete, groaning in pain as non-lethal strikes to their shoulders and knees neutralized them instantly. Panic erupted among the remaining ten men. They began firing wildly into the shadows, riddling empty crates and steel barrels with bullet holes, completely blinded by their own terror and confusion.

Dante flowed through the chaos like a wraith. Every movement was economic, lethal, and devastatingly efficient. He disarmed a thug with a sweeping kick to the wrist, spun another around to use as a human shield against incoming fire, and sent a heavy iron wrench flying across the room to shatter the hand of a man reaching for a shotgun.

Within ninety seconds, the gunfire stopped.

The remaining guards were either writhing on the floor in agony or had dropped their weapons, raising their hands in absolute surrender, trembling as they stared at the legendary mafia boss who had just dismantled a squad bare-handed.

At the center of the room, Vince Moretti stood shaking like a leaf, his pistol held in a limp, sweaty hand pointed vaguely at the floor. His face was slick with cold sweat.

Dante stepped out from the shadows, his breathing steady, not a single hair out of place. He walked slowly toward Vince, the sound of his heavy boots crunching against broken glass and spent shell casings sounding like a countdown to execution.

"You... you're a monster," Vince stammered, backing away until his spine hit the edge of the map table.

"I was a monster," Dante corrected softly, stopping just two feet away from him. He reached out with lightning speed, grabbing Vince by the throat and slamming him backward onto the metal table, sending maps and coffee mugs crashing to the floor. "Now, I'm just a family man protecting what's mine. And you threatened my family."

"Please... D-Dante... spare me," Vince choked out, his face turning blue as Dante’s fingers tightened around his windpipe. "I'll leave the country! You'll never see me again!"

Dante looked down at the pathetic excuse for a mobster, feeling no anger—only a profound, hollow exhaustion. The cycle of violence ended right here.

"You're going to pack up every last remnant of Moretti's guard," Dante whispered into Vince's ear, his voice deadly cold. "You're going to hand over every ledger, every wire transfer account, and every piece of leverage you have on my past to federal authorities anonymously by midnight. If I ever hear your name, or see your face, or even suspect you're within a thousand miles of Boston..."

Dante slowly released his grip, letting Vince slump coughing and gasping onto the concrete floor.