A three-year-old girl destroyed the birthday cake of one of New York’s most feared mafia boss’s sons—and for several terrifying seconds, everyone thought my daughter had just made the worst mistake of her life. Then Lily pointed toward the kitchen and whispered, “A man touched Ethan’s cake,” and Dominic Moretti’s fury turned into something far more frightening.

The grand ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel in downtown Manhattan was the neutral territory of the New York underworld.

Under massive crystal chandeliers, the heads of the five major syndicates sat around a massive circular oak table, surrounded by their top lieutenants and bodyguards.

At the head of the table sat Victor Falcone—a sharp-eyed seventy-year-old man with silver hair, wearing a tailored gray suit, leaning on a silver-headed cane.

"Where is Moretti?" Victor asked smoothly, checking his gold pocket watch. "The summit began ten minutes ago. Is Dominic getting too old to keep time?"

A few lieutenants chuckled nervously.

Suddenly, the heavy oak double doors of the ballroom were slammed open with a deafening crack.

Dominic Moretti walked into the room.

He looked magnificent. He wore a midnight-black tuxedo, his hair neatly styled, his expression terrifyingly calm. Walking beside him was Michael, carrying a leather briefcase, followed by twenty armed Moretti guards who immediately flanked the perimeter of the ballroom, cutting off the exits.

The room went completely silent.

Victor Falcone’s smile faltered slightly, his grip tightening on his cane. "Dominic. You made it."

"I did, Victor," Dominic said smoothly, walking up to the table and taking his seat at the opposite end. "Apologies for the delay. I had to dispose of some trash at my estate."

Victor narrowed his eyes. "Trash?"

Dominic signaled to Michael.

Michael stepped forward, opened the leather briefcase, and tossed three items onto the center of the mahogany table:

First, Lorenzo’s silver falcon thumb ring. Second, the silver box of Swiss peanut protein extract. Third, a signed confession from the pharmaceutical chemist in Zurich, implicating Victor Falcone directly in the plot to murder eight-year-old Ethan Moretti.

The other syndicate bosses at the table gasped, leaning forward to examine the evidence.

In the mob world, rivalries were settled with guns on the street. But targeting a boss's young child with poison was a violation of the sacred Code of Honor—an offense punishable by absolute execution under the law of the Commission.

"What is the meaning of this madness?" Victor spat, standing up, his face flushing red. "This proves nothing! Lorenzo was a rogue soldier!"

"Lorenzo is dead," Dominic said, his voice echoing clearly across the high-ceilinged room. "And his last words were recorded on digital tape, detailing your exact wire transfers, Victor."

The oldest boss at the table, Don Carmine of the Genovese family, stood up, looking at Victor with absolute disgust.

"Victor," Don Carmine said coldly. "You brought poison to a child. You broke the Code."

"He's lying!" Victor screamed, reaching for the concealed pistol inside his coat.

Before Victor’s hand could reach his holster, Dominic drew his weapon from beneath his jacket with lightning speed.

BOOM.

A single shot shattered the silence of the Grand Plaza ballroom.

Victor Falcone crumpled back into his heavy leather chair, a bullet hole precisely between his eyes, his silver cane clattering uselessly to the marble floor.

Dominic slowly lowered his weapon, placing it on the table. He looked around the room at the other three syndicate bosses. None of them moved. None of them raised a weapon.

"The Falcone syndicate is dismantled as of tonight," Dominic announced calmly. "Their docks, their warehouses, and their territory belong to the Moretti family. Does anyone at this table object?"

Don Carmine looked at the dead body of Victor, then at Dominic’s cold, unflinching eyes.

Carmine slowly bowed his head. "No objections, Dominic. The honor of the Commission is satisfied."