"Mister… may I eat with you?” the maid’s three-year-old daughter asked Julian Hale, the wealthy mafia boss whose name could silence an entire room. No one in his mansion dared sit beside him at dinner, but the little girl simply saw a lonely man eating by himself. What Julian did next stunned his guards, but what the child whispered after taking that empty chair made the feared crime boss slowly put down his fork.

The study was dim, lit only by the green shaded lamp on the desk and the amber glow of the fireplace.

Dante sat in one of the leather armchairs, nursing a crystal glass of bourbon. Marcus, my head of logistics, stood by the window, while Dominic, my legal counsel, was reviewing papers on the sofa.

When I walked in, all three men stood up.

"Julian," Dante smiled, stepping forward. He was a handsome man of thirty-eight, with slicked-back dark hair and a permanent, arrogant smirk. "Viktor said it was urgent. Did the Moretti family cross the river line again?"

I didn't answer right away. I walked behind my desk, poured myself two fingers of whiskey, and swallowed it in one sharp gulp.

"Dominic, Marcus," I said calmly. "Leave us."

Dominic frowned. "Julian, the dock contracts—"

"Get out," I repeated, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Marcus grabbed Dominic’s arm, and the two men quickly exited the room, closing the heavy double doors behind them.

Only Dante remained. He set his glass down on the desk, his eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up on the shift in the air.

"What's going on, Boss?" Dante asked, reaching casually toward his jacket pocket.

"Don't," I said.

Before he could react, I drew my revolver from my shoulder holster and leveled the barrel directly between his eyes.

Dante froze. His hands hovered in mid-air.

"Julian... what the hell is this?" Dante stammered, forcing a chuckle. "Is this a joke?"

"Two years ago," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark it sounded like stone grinding against stone. "October 14th. Three in the morning."

Dante’s easy smile vanished. The color slowly drained from his face.

"You sat at my table, Dante," I whispered, stepping around the desk until the cold steel of the barrel pressed against the skin of his forehead. "You wept at my daughter's memorial. And all the while, you were the one who gave the security codes to Moretti's hit squad."

"Julian, listen to me—" Dante panicked, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Someone is lying to you! It's a setup! Moretti is trying to turn you against your own men!"

"The nurse survived, Dante," I said quietly.

Dante’s eyes flared with pure, unadulterated terror. He knew the game was over.

In a lightning-fast move, he lunged to his left, drawing his snub-nosed pistol from his waistline, but I didn't shoot to kill. I shifted my aim and put a heavy bullet straight through his right knee!

BANG!

Dante shrieked in agony, collapsing onto the Persian rug, clutching his shattered leg as blood pooled onto the floor.

"Who else?" I demanded, standing over him, racking the revolver's hammer. "Who else in my organization helped you sell out my family?"

"Nobody!" Dante screamed, sobbing through his teeth. "It was just me! Moretti offered me fifty million dollars and control of the southern docks! He promised me you'd be dead within a month after the baby died! He said grief would make you weak!"