Nolan had six-year-old Leo pinned face-down on the grass when Serafina reached them.

By ten o'clock that evening, the children were safely asleep on the third floor of the estate, guarded by four elite tactical operators who answered exclusively to Serafina.

Inside the mansion’s private sanctuary—a soundproof library hidden behind mahogany wall panels—Serafina sat at an antique oak desk, a single green banker’s lamp illuminating her workspace.

Spread before her were three thick, leather-bound ledgers containing hand-written financial entries dating back fifteen years.

Santino entered quietly, setting a glass of sparkling water beside her desk. "Marco has spent the last six months buying off the docks in New Jersey, Donna. He believes he has enough muscle to force a vote at midnight."

"Marco is an idiot who mistakes volume for power," Serafina said, turning a yellowed page filled with dense mathematical equations and offshore routing numbers. "He thinks muscle wins wars because he doesn't understand how muscle gets paid."

She pointed a delicate finger at a column of figures.

"Three years ago, Marco secretly borrowed twelve million dollars from an offshore consortium in Zurich to fund his illegal casino operations in Atlantic City," Serafina revealed. "He used his syndicate voting shares as collateral, assuming Matteo would never find out."

Santino’s eyebrows shot up. "Did Matteo know?"

"Matteo didn't," Serafina smiled thinly, a sharp, dangerous glint in her eyes. "I did. I bought Marco’s debt through a front company in Panama eight months ago. I don't just own his shares, Santino. I own his house, his cars, his weapons contracts, and the clothes on his back."