STOP TALKING TO HER LIKE SHE'S A CHILD!”

By two in the morning, the rain had ceased, leaving Lake Michigan shrouded in a thick, rolling fog.

In the subterranean levels beneath the Moretti docks, three miles south of the estate, justice was administered according to the ancient laws of the syndicate. I wasn't there to see it—Luca had insisted that Sofia and I remain safely in the mansion's private upper quarters—but the results arrived on heavy vellum parchment before the sun rose.

Silvio returned to the mansion at four a.m., carrying a leather portfolio. He joined Luca in the private library, where Sofia sat wrapped in a cashmere blanket before a roaring fire, sipping chamomile tea that I had prepared for her.

"It is finished, Don Luca," Silvio reported quietly, standing before the desk.

Luca closed the book he had been reading. "Miller?"

"Disbarred and out of the country by noon," Silvio said. "He surrendered his files, his offshore account numbers, and the original deed to the Bellini logistics yards. He knows that if he ever sets foot in North America again, he won't make it past airport customs."

"And the siblings?"

Silvio’s jaw tightened. "Marco signed the full divestment. Every warehouse, every freight line, every trust fund. The Bellini name no longer exists in Chicago business."

"And Vanessa?"

"She confessed to the state police investigator we keep on retainer," Silvio said, passing a signed affidavit across the desk. "She admitted to tampering with Donna Sofia's vehicle and embezzling syndicate funds. Officially, she has been transferred to a high-security psychiatric facility in southern Illinois under our private watch. She will never see the light of day, nor will she ever speak to anyone outside those walls."

Sofia looked into the crackling fire. She did not weep for Vanessa. She had seen too many betrayals in her seventy-six years to mourn a viper that had struck at her own hearth.

She turned to Silvio and signed a short phrase:

*T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U, O-L-D F-R-I-E-N-D.*

Silvio placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply. "It was an honor, Donna Sofia. Forgive me for being blind for so long."

"We were all blind, Silvio," Luca said quietly, standing up and pouring two glasses of vintage bourbon. He handed one to his consigliere. "We allowed our grief to make us careless. If not for Claire..."

Luca turned his head toward the wingback chair near the window, where I sat quietly, exhausted but unable to sleep.

"Claire," Luca said.

"Yes, Luca?"

Hearing his name on my lips still felt strange, almost dangerous, but his expression softened every time I used it.

"Armando called from the hospital ten minutes ago," Luca said, walking toward me and resting one hand on the carved mahogany mantelpiece. "Your sister, Lily. She was admitted to the VIP surgical wing at midnight. The chief of surgery examined her scans personally. Her reconstruction is scheduled for eight this morning."

A heavy sob caught in my throat. I pressed my hands to my face, unable to hold back the tears that had been building since Vanessa had snapped her fingers at me across the dinner table. All the months of scraping pennies, of skipping meals to pay for Lily’s medications, of taking insults from entitled socialites—it was over.

Sofia wheeled her chair over to me, reaching out and gently pulling my hands away from my face.

*F-A-M-I-L-Y N-O-W,* she signed, her hazel eyes warm and fierce. *Y-O-U S-A-V-E-D M-E. W-E S-A-V-E Y-O-U.*