Sixty million dollars had just changed hands when a baby crawled under my desk, grabbed my trouser cuff, and looked up at me with the exact gray eyes of my dead brother. No child was supposed to be anywhere near the private office of a mafia boss, but when I saw what was hanging around her neck, I knew she hadn't gotten into my house by accident.

The private elevator descended smoothly to the basement vault, the heavy steel cables humming beneath the floorboards.

My reflection in the mirrored walls showed a man who looked entirely composed. At thirty-four, I was the undisputed head of the Caruso syndicate—a man who had inherited a empire of blood, concrete, and high-stakes smuggling and doubled its net worth within five years. My hair was dark, my jawline carved from granite, and my eyes permanently shadowed by the sleepless weight of command.

For eighteen months, I had mourned Julian. I had hunted down the two low-level enforcers from the North Side crew who were supposedly spotted near the Newark overpass, locking them in a meat locker until their tongues turned black. I had believed every lie I was fed.

And Vincent Rizzo had stood beside me through every funeral wreath, every drop of whiskey poured on the concrete, and every quiet night of vengeance.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the cavernous underground counting room.

The room smelled of old paper, cold stone, and expensive Cuban cigars. Stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills were piled across three reinforced oak tables like bricks at a construction site. Six armed guards from my personal detail stood along the perimeter, their hands resting near their holsters.

Standing by the central table was Vincent Rizzo.

At sixty-two, Vincent looked like a retired professor rather than a syndicate capo. He wore a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, gold-rimmed reading glasses, and silver hair combed straight back. He was carefully sealing a leather courier pouch containing bearer bonds from the morning's transaction.

“Ah, Michael,” Vincent looked up, offering that familiar, grandfatherly smile that had comforted me through my father’s death and Julian’s supposed demise. “The Swiss couriers just left with the primary transfer. The sixty million is cleared through the Cayman accounts. Clean as church linen.”

I stepped out of the elevator, my leather shoes clicking sharply against the concrete floor. The six guards immediately straightened, sensing the subtle shift in the air.

“Good work, Vincent,” I said, walking slowly toward the central table.

“You look troubled, son,” Vincent noted, taking off his reading glasses and folding them into his breast pocket. “Is it the board members in Chicago? Or are the docks acting up again?”

“Neither,” I said, stopping two feet away from him. I leaned against the edge of the oak table, resting my hand right beside the stack of bearer bonds. “I was just thinking about my brother, Julian.”

A microscopic flicker crossed Vincent’s eyes—so fast, so well-trained, that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have missed it. But I didn't miss it. His shoulders stiffened just a fraction of a millimeter.

“A tragedy,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a smooth, practiced cadence of sorrow. “We all miss him, Michael. He was reckless, yes—God rest his soul—but he had a good heart. We did everything we could to find who torched that car.”

“Did we, Vincent?” I asked quietly.

Vincent frowned, tilting his head. “What do you mean by that?”

“You told me the car was stolen from a chop shop in Newark,” I recalled, staring straight into his eyes. “You told me the forensic dental records matched Julian’s bridge work. You personally oversaw the transfer of the remains to our family crypt.”

“The state police handled the forensics, Michael,” Vincent replied, his tone remaining steady, though a faint line of sweat appeared along his temple. “I merely assisted the coroner so you wouldn't have to look at the wreckage yourself. It was too gruesome.”

“It was gruesome,” I agreed. “So gruesome, in fact, that it would have been very easy to plant dental molds from a Jane or John Doe pulled out of a river morgue, while the actual target walked away into the night.”

The six perimeter guards shifted uncomfortably. One of them, a heavy-set enforcer named Frankie, cleared his throat. “Boss... is there a problem here?”

“There’s a massive problem, Frankie,” I said without breaking eye contact with Vincent. “The problem is that my brother didn't die in that car. Someone inside my house helped him fake his death. And someone inside this room has been hunting him ever since.”

Vincent didn't flinch. Instead, a cold, hard smile touched the corners of his mouth. The grandfatherly professor vanished, replaced by the veteran killer who had survived four syndicate wars.

“You’re talking nonsense, Michael,” Vincent said softly, his voice dropping an octave. “The boy is dead. And if you’re letting grief make you see ghosts, you’re endangering everything your father built.”

“Where is she, Vincent?” I asked.

“Who?”