A businessman was brutally beaten in front of an entire diner for daring to touch New York's most feared mafia boss

By noon the following day, the underworld was eating itself alive.

Julian Moretti's disappearance had fractured the five families of New York into warring factions. Salvatore had retreated into his fortified brownstone in Brooklyn, issuing frantic bounties and burning his own supply lines in a desperate bid to stave off the inevitable.

Inside the library at Hawthorne, the war was being fought with paper.

I sat at the massive mahogany partner's desk, surrounded by thick ledgers, encrypted hard drives, and the shipping manifests I had been analyzing since my third day in the house. Dominic stood behind me, one hand resting on the back of my leather chair, a mug of black coffee in the other. He had abandoned his suit jackets, wearing only a clean black henley that clung to his broad chest.

His proximity was no longer a threat; it had become an anchor.

"Look at this," I said, tapping the screen of my laptop. "Terminal Four at the Port of Newark."

Dominic leaned down, his chin hovering inches from my hair. The scent of dark roast and clean soap filled my senses. "That's our primary container hub. It handles sixty percent of Vale Holdings' legitimate freight."

"That's what the front ledger says," I corrected, pulling up a secondary spreadsheet I had cross-referenced against the municipal fuel taxes. "Look at the vessel turnaround times. The Nordic Star logged four days at berth, but the port authority only charged for twenty-four hours of shore power. And the customs clearance stamp on the third manifest isn't from the Port Authority. It’s a forged inland transit seal."

Dominic’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Someone is moving contraband through my private cranes without logging it into the central mainframe."

"Not just contraband," I said, turning to look at him. "Kerosene. Industrial-grade chemical accelerants. The shipments started three weeks ago, routed to a shell company called Apex Logistics—an entity owned by a silent partner on your board of directors."

"Anthony Russo," Dominic muttered, his jaw hardening into granite.

Russo was Dominic’s chief financial officer, a man who had served his father for twenty years. A man who had sat at Dominic’s right hand during every council meeting.

"Salvatore didn't just want to kill you on the highway," I realized, a cold dread washing over me. "The ambush was a distraction. He’s going to burn Newark. If Terminal Four goes up in flames with millions of gallons of illegal accelerants inside, federal regulators will shut down Vale Holdings forever. You’ll be ruined before you can fire a shot."

The heavy oak door to the library swung open. Marcus stepped inside, his arm strapped into a clean sling beneath his jacket.

"Boss, Russo just arrived at the lower gates with two security details," Marcus said, his voice flat. "He’s claiming he has emergency documents regarding the Brooklyn docks that need your immediate signature."

Dominic straightened up, the predatory king sliding back over his features like an executioner's hood. He reached down, his fingers lightly brushing the top of my hand where it rested on the mahogany desk.

"You have a brilliant mind, Miss Carter," he whispered. "Let's see if Russo’s matches his greed."

Five minutes later, Anthony Russo walked into the library.

He was a heavyset man in his late fifties, sweating through an expensive three-piece pinstripe suit, clutching a leather portfolio to his chest like a breastplate.

"Dominic! Thank God you're all right," Russo wheezed, mopping his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. "The rumors coming out of the city this morning... they're saying Julian is dead. Salvatore is losing his mind. He’s threatening all-out war on the piers."

"Is he?" Dominic asked, sitting behind the desk, leaning back with effortless, terrifying poise. "And where were you last night, Anthony, while Julian was trying to put two dozen holes in my car?"

"I was at the Manhattan office, managing the board!" Russo stammered, his eyes darting nervously toward me, then toward Marcus standing silently against the door. "Who is this girl? Dominic, this is syndicate business. She shouldn't be in this room."

"This girl," Dominic said, each syllable dropping like an anvil, "just saved this empire three hundred million dollars and a federal indictment."

Dominic spun the laptop around, displaying the forged manifests for Terminal Four.

Russo’s breath hitched. The handkerchief slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the Persian rug.

"You took twenty million from Salvatore to look the other way while his men packed my container yard with chemical fire," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the heavy glass decanters on the sideboard rattle. "You thought if I died on the Palisades, you could take the chairman's seat and rule over the ashes."

"Dominic, no! It wasn't like that!" Russo fell to his knees on the carpet, tears of genuine terror spilling down his fleshy cheeks. "Salvatore threatened my family! He said he’d skin my sons alive! I had no choice!"

Dominic rose from the chair. He walked around the desk, stopping two feet from the groveling executive.

"You always had a choice, Anthony," Dominic said softly. "You could have come to me. You could have remembered who built the ground you walk on."

Dominic didn't draw a weapon. He looked over at Marcus.

"Take him down to the cellar," Dominic instructed. "Call our port marshals. Have them sweep Terminal Four and neutralize every Moretti crew on the docks. And as for Anthony..."