Alina Carbone stood on the edge of the low viewing platform holding little Lucy

The bright afternoon sun seemed to turn freezing cold. On the terrace, thirty civilian guests—hedge fund billionaires, municipal judges, and society patrons—stood frozen against the bar, terrified that the slightest movement might draw Lorenzo's wrath.

Marcus was coughing on his hands and knees in the sand, spitting thick crimson onto the white team cloths. His luxury wristwatch was cracked, its gold band gouged by the splintered wood of the mallet rack.

"Lorenzo..." Marcus wheezed, his voice choked with blood and agony. "You laid hands on your own blood... in front of the Commission's donors..."

Lorenzo did not look down at him. He reached into his breast pocket, drew a clean linen handkerchief, and slowly wiped a speck of dust from his gold signet ring.

"My blood is standing behind that gate," Lorenzo said, his voice flat, devoid of rage, which made it ten times more terrifying. "You and your sister stopped being my blood the second you touched my child."

Two senior capos, Frank and Valerio, stepped down into the practice lane, their hands folded formally in front of their tailored suits. They looked at Marcus with the cold detachment of butchers examining cattle.

"Boss," Frank murmured, his American accent low and raspy. "The exits are secured. No one leaves the grounds. The club's wireless signal was scrambled two minutes ago."

"Good," Lorenzo replied, turning his gaze back to Ramona.

Ramona was trembling violently beneath the ruined fabric banners, clutching her cheek with both hands. Her diamond earrings were tangled in her disheveled hair, her breathing coming in shallow, hysterical gasps.

"You think you can bury this, Lorenzo?" Ramona rasped, trying to summon an ounce of her former venom. "The northern council knows! They know you gave your wife the voting shares in the logistics trust! They won't let you replace us with an outsider!"

Lorenzo took two slow steps toward her, the soles of his polished shoes crunching over broken cardboard donor placards. He stopped directly over her, his towering shadow swallowing her completely.

"Tell me what Lucy heard, Ramona," Lorenzo commanded. The pauses between his words were deliberate, heavy as lead. "What did you mean when you told a three-year-old girl her mother wouldn't be here after tonight?"

Ramona swallowed hard, her rosy cheeks draining of all color until she looked like an unburied corpse. She looked frantically toward her brother, but Marcus was doubled over, unable to breathe through his fractured ribs.

"It was just talk!" Ramona pleaded, her voice breaking into a terrified whine. "I was angry! She was flaunting the jewelry your mother gave her—"

"Do not lie to me in front of my men," Lorenzo cut her off, his baritone dropping an octave. "Who did Marcus meet at the marina in Stamford this morning?"

Marcus stiffened in the sand. His bloodied fingers clawed into the dirt, his eyes widening in pure horror. He realized in an instant that their communications had never been secure.