The most feared Mafia boss in Chicago caught sight of the scars I'd spent years hiding, and the entire mansion fell silent. The men who never flinched at violence suddenly looked shaken, and before I could cover my arm, the man who had destroyed my life walked through the front door, completely unaware that everything was about to change.

A murmur of shock swept through the dining room.

Don Saleri leaned back in his leather chair, his thick eyebrows knitting together in deep skepticism. "Linwood? Richard Linwood died three years ago. His nephew, Julian Vance, took over the business. We've been doing deals with Vance for thirty months, Vincent."

"You've been doing deals with a thief and a psychopath," Vincent corrected coldly.

Vincent signaled to Marco, who stood near the wall. Marco stepped forward and placed four leather folders on the table, sliding one in front of each family boss.

"Inside those folders," Vincent continued, "are forensic accounting reports conducted over the last forty-eight hours. Julian Vance has been skimming six percent off every container moving through Pier 42—money that was supposed to be split among your four families."

Don Saleri opened his folder, his eyes darting across the ledger columns. His face quickly turned from skeptical to furious. "That son of a bitch..."

"Furthermore," Vincent added, his hazel eyes scanning the table, "Vance acquired Linwood Shipping by forging Richard Linwood's signature on his deathbed, and by holding Miss Linwood captive in a cellar for ninety days."

The boss to Saleri's left, a younger man named Dominic Cole who ran the south side rackets, snorted in disbelief. "Captive? Come on, Vincent. This is business, not a soap opera. Vance says the girl was unstable and ran off."

Vincent didn't argue. He turned to me. "Maya."

My hands shook beneath the table, but I remembered Vincent's words on the stairs: Hold your head high.

I slowly raised my left arm, reaching over with my right hand to pull back the sheer lace sleeve of my dress. I laid my forearm flat on the white tablecloth under the bright chandelier lights.

The long, jagged keloid scars gleamed under the light. The dark, circular chemical burn around my wrist stood out like an indelible stamp of horror.

The four bosses stared at my arm. Even Dominic Cole, who had been sneering seconds ago, closed his mouth, his eyes widening in disgust.

"Julian Vance did this to me," I said, my voice steady, ringing clear across the silent room. "He used an industrial pipe clamp heated with a blowtorch to force me to give up my father's bank accounts. When I refused, he threatened to do the same to my unborn child."

I looked Dominic Cole dead in the eye.

"Is that business to you, Mr. Cole?" I asked softly.

Dominic swallowed hard, looking away from my arm, visibly uncomfortable. "Jesus..."

Don Saleri slammed his fist onto the table, making the wine glasses rattle. "Enough!"

Saleri looked across at Vincent. "Where is Vance now?"

"In my cellar," Vincent replied calmly. "He has twenty-four hours left to live."

"And Marcus Drake?" Saleri asked. "Drake has thirty armed men occupying the terminal at Pier 42 right now. He's threatening to blow the fuel tanks if we move against him."

Vincent stood up from his chair. His towering frame seemed to cast a long, dark shadow across the entire room.

"Marcus Drake thinks he's fighting a war against me," Vincent said, pulling a heavy steel pistol from his shoulder holster and racking the slide with a sharp, metallic clack. "He doesn't realize he's already dead."