The mafia boss came home early and found his fiancée doing something to his maid that ended their engagement that night

The storm broke over the sound at two in the morning, unleashing sheets of freezing rain that rattled against the slate roof of the estate.

Luca sat in his study down the hall from Emma’s room, a glass of unopened Scotch sitting on his desk beside a loaded SIG Sauer P226. On the monitors lining the wall, the perimeter cameras flickered through green night-vision filters. The grounds were silent, save for the dark silhouettes of his guards pacing along the perimeter fence with rain gear slick against their weapons.

At three-fifteen, the phone on his private desk rang. It was an unlisted landline that only three men had the number for.

Luca picked it up. "Speak."

"You made a mistake, Luca."

The voice was raspy, aged by forty years of cigars and undisputed authority. Vincente Romano.

"I don't make mistakes, Vincente," Luca said calmly. "I correct them. Your daughter left her trash in my sitting room. I had it thrown out."

There was a long pause on the other end, punctuated by the faint clinking of ice in a glass. "Bianca told me you humiliated her in front of the servants. She said you threatened her life over a common thief."

"Your daughter laid hands on someone under my roof without my permission," Luca replied, leaning back in his leather chair. "In our world, that is an act of war. But we both know this isn't about domestic discipline, don't we?"

"I don't know what lies that girl whispered in your ear—"

"Halcyon Marine," Luca interrupted.

The line went dead silent. The rasp of Vincente’s breathing ceased entirely.

"I have the offshore routing sheets, Vincente," Luca continued, his voice smooth and lethally measured. "I have the communications between Bianca and Miller at the Department of Justice. And I have the transfer receipts for the forty million dollars you siphoned out of Arthur Bennett’s logistics network before you had his brake lines cut."

"You’re playing a dangerous game, boy," Vincente growled, the patriarch's veneer slipping away to reveal the feral thug beneath. "Arthur Bennett was a weak man who couldn't hold his territory. His daughter was supposed to be dead."

"She isn't dead," Luca said. "She’s sitting in my guest room, drinking my tea, and reviewing your financial ruin."

"If you think the Commission will let you tear up an alliance over a ghost from three years ago—"

"The Commission doesn't protect traitors," Luca said. "And they certainly don't protect men who try to frame their allies for federal racketeering to seize their ports. By dawn, every capo in New York will have a copy of your bank transfers. Let’s see how many of your soldiers stay loyal when they realize you’ve been skimming from the pension funds to pay off your daughter’s Swiss debts."

Vincente slammed the receiver down with such force the dial tone cracked like bone.

Luca set the phone down and exhaled slowly. He stood up, picked up his weapon, and walked out into the corridor.

He stopped outside Emma’s door. A thin sliver of light spilled out from underneath it. He knocked once, lightly.

"Come in," she said.

Luca pushed the door open. Emma was sitting by the desk, fully dressed in dark trousers and a heavy wool sweater Mrs. Gable had brought her. She was reading through a leather-bound ledger she had pulled from the room's bookshelf.

"You didn't sleep," Luca observed.

"Neither did you."

"Vincente called."

Emma closed the book, her fingers trembling slightly before she locked them together on the blotter. "What did he say?"

"He confirmed everything," Luca said. "He knows you’re alive. And he knows I have the drive."

Emma looked toward the window, where rain streaked down the glass like tears. "Then he’ll send men tonight. He won't wait until eleven. Vincente never fights when you expect him to."