Beside the lavish banquet table, thirty-nine-year-old Marcella Bellandi violently struck four-year-old Vivia across the face

The recording ended with the faint, rhythmic beep of a hospital monitor, followed by a choked breath and the rustle of sheets.

The study fell into a silence so absolute that the rustle of the oak leaves outside the window sounded like tearing paper.

Nico sat unmoving. He did not slam his fist onto the mahogany; he did not roar in fury. He simply placed his hand over Vivia’s small shoulder, his fingers steady, his slate-gray eyes turning to pure, unadulterated flint.

Rafe stared at the screen, his broad chest heaving beneath his tailored suit. "Jesus Christ, Nico. The entire wedding... it was an extraction."

"Not an extraction," Nico murmured, his controlled pauses stretching between words like execution ropes. "An assassination. They needed the family gathered in one room, unarmed, celebrating. Vincent Corban wasn't bringing gifts. He was bringing a firing squad."

Rafe reached instinctively inside his jacket, checking the slide on his customized semi-automatic. "We have twenty men on the perimeter. Corban is bringing thirty. If they hit the gates while the family is contained in the east wing, we’re caught in a crossfire."

Nico looked down at his daughter. Vivia had finished her biscuit, her eyes heavy with the sudden exhaustion that follows terror.

"Mrs. Gable," Nico spoke into the intercom on his desk.

Within five seconds, the side door leading to the residential quarters opened. The elderly, white-haired housekeeper entered, her hands trembling against her apron. She looked at Vivia, then at Nico, bowing her head in deep reverence.

"Take Vivia to the panic vault beneath the chapel," Nico instructed, his voice low and immovable. "Lock the secondary blast door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone other than me or Rafe. If the ventilation system cuts out, switch to manual oxygen."

"On my life, Don Bellandi," Mrs. Gable whispered.

Nico lifted Vivia, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Go with Mrs. Gable, little bird. Daddy has to finish the party."

"Will you bring Mommy's dress?" Vivia asked, her hazel eyes wide and serious.

"The dress stays with me," Nico said softly. "Go."

The door clicked shut behind them. The moment the child was clear of the room, the faint warmth in Nico’s face evaporated entirely. He stood up, unbuttoning his tailored suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the leather chair. He unfastened his cufflinks, rolling his crisp white sleeves up over his muscular, scarred forearms.

"Open the second folder, Rafe," Nico commanded. "The manifests."

Rafe clicked the mouse. A series of scanned documents covered the screen—customs declarations from the Port of Newark, bearing the official red seal of the Bellandi syndicate, alongside secondary signatures penned in fresh, blue ink: Marcella Bellandi and Vincent Corban.

"They weren't just moving contraband," Rafe said, leaning over the monitor, his brow furrowing into deep, angry lines. "They were moving military-grade thermite charges into our storage bays. Three hundred crates. Enough to level four city blocks."

"They intended to detonate the docks tonight," Nico said, his voice dropping into that chilling, quiet register. "Blame it on a gas leak or an offshore rival, wipe out our primary revenue stream, and step into the vacuum with Corban money."

"And Marcella signed off on all of it," Rafe muttered, disgust dripping from his words.

Nico walked over to the reinforced walnut gun cabinet behind his desk. He entered a six-digit code on the digital keypad. The heavy glass doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss.