“Make my daughter speak again, and I’ll give you everything,” the billionaire Mafia Boss begged. But when my four-year-old pointed at the swan music box and whispered, “He doesn’t want her to open it,” the man Vincent trusted most suddenly went pale.

The heavy oak doors of the study closed with a dull thud.

Marco returned less than five minutes later, dragging Dominic Vesceri between two guards. Dominic’s expensive tailored suit was rumpled and stained with dark dirt from the basement floor, his lip swollen and split from Vincent’s earlier punch. But despite his battered appearance, Dominic’s eyes still held a defiant, arrogant spark.

The guards shoved him forward, forcing him to his knees right in front of Vincent’s desk.

Dominic spat a glob of blood onto the Persian rug, chuckling weakly. “Rough treatment for an old friend, Vincent. I thought you had more class than a common street thug.”

Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. He simply reached down and picked up the heavy, iron-handled pliers Marco had placed on the corner of the desk.

“You killed my wife, Dominic,” Vincent said, his voice chillingly quiet.

Dominic shrugged, wincing slightly as his bruised ribs flared in pain. “Sofia was a liability. She couldn't stomach the reality of how this family makes its money. She wanted a normal life, a normal husband. She was going to put you away for the rest of your natural-born life, Vincent. I protected the syndicate. I protected you.”

“You protected yourself,” Vincent corrected, stepping around the desk. He crouched down until his face was inches from Dominic’s. “And you partnered with the Marcones. Who else signed off on it? Who else in my inner circle knew about the ambush on Route 41?”

Dominic’s eyes darted sideways for a fraction of a second toward the dark hallway outside the study.

It was a microscopic tell. But in Vincent’s world, a tell was a death sentence.

Vincent didn't hesitate. He grabbed Dominic’s right hand, slammed it flat against the edge of the mahogany desk, and clamped the heavy iron pliers over Dominic’s index finger.

Dominic let out a high, terrified shriek that echoed down the long hallway.

“Who else?!” Vincent roared, applying pressure.

“Wait! Wait! I’ll talk!” Dominic sobbed, tears streaming down his face mixed with sweat and blood. “Salvatore! Salvatore signed off on it from the New York branch! They promised me a seat on the national commission if I delivered your logistics network!”

I turned away, pulling Ellie into my lap and burying her face against my shoulder so she couldn't see the blood or hear the agonizing screams. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. This was the dark, brutal underworld Vincent Moretti ruled—a world of vengeance, betrayal, and absolute violence.

Vincent released the pliers. Dominic collapsed forward, sobbing uncontrollably, cradling his mangled finger against his chest.

Vincent stood up, wiping his hands with a clean white handkerchief from his breast pocket. He looked at Marco.

“Lock him back in the basement. Put a double guard on the door,” Vincent ordered coldly. “We leave for New York in two hours.”

Marco hauled Dominic to his feet and dragged him out of the room, leaving a smear of blood across the polished floorboards.

Vincent turned back to me. The rage in his eyes had receded, replaced by a grim, exhausting determination. He looked down at Ellie, still hiding her face against my chest, and then at me.

“I told you I’d get you out of here,” Vincent said quietly. “And I keep my word. Marco will escort you and your daughter to a private airfield in Waukegan within the hour. A jet is waiting to take you to Zurich. Money, passports, a fresh start—it’s all arranged.”

I looked up at him, my voice shaking. “And you? What about you, Mr. Moretti?”

“I have a war to finish,” Vincent said simply. He walked over to his desk, picked up the silver flash drive, and slipped it into his pocket. “The Marcone family thinks they can carve up my empire while I’m mourning my wife. They’re about to find out what happens when a wolf wakes up.”

He reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope stuffed with cash and identification documents, and handed it to me.

“Take care of your little girl, Rachel,” Vincent said, his voice softening just a fraction. “She’s a remarkable child. Make sure she keeps speaking.”

Ten minutes later, Marco escorted us out through the side service exit of the mansion. The rain had stopped, leaving the night air crisp and smelling of wet pine and distant asphalt.

A black armored SUV was idling near the gravel drive.

We climbed into the back seat. As the SUV pulled away from the grand Lake Forest estate, I turned and looked back through the tinted window.

Vincent Moretti was standing alone on the front porch, a solitary figure framed by the warm amber light of the doorway, watching us drive off into the dark.