Cleo stood in humiliation as her aunt Verity broadcasted an audio recording of the toddler tearfully begging for food from her teddy bear, mocking her trembling lips for the amusement of the guests.

The sun had begun its final descent behind the city skyline, casting a cold, brilliant rose-and-violet twilight across the glass dome of the conservatory behind them. The glass reflected the dying light like a sheet of polished steel.

Leopold pulled Verity’s rose-gold phone from his overcoat pocket.

The screen lit up.

A new, encrypted incoming call was flashing across the glass. The caller ID displayed no number, only a single, flashing red character: a stylized anchor encircled by an iron chain.

The personal emblem of Dominic Moretti—the exiled Chicago boss who had supposedly drowned in Lake Michigan seven years ago.

Leopold thumbed the green accept icon. He did not say hello. He raised the phone to his ear and waited.

Across the digital line, through the faint crackle of high-seas satellite static, a rough, gravelly voice chuckled—an old man’s laugh, seasoned with salt spray and sixty years of unapologetic carnage.

“Well played, Leopold,” the voice rasped, the Chicago cadence thick and mocking. “I see your sister didn't have the stomach for family politics. She always was a weak little bird.”

Leopold’s grip on the phone tightened until the glass casing groaned under the pressure.

“Dominic,” Leopold said, his tone as dead as an open grave.

“Don't sound so surprised, boy,” Moretti chuckled. “You didn't really think Verity had the brains to draft a federal probate coup, did you? She was the distraction. While you were playing patriarch in that glass greenhouse, my people took Terminal Four. The north gate belongs to Chicago now.”

A faint rumble echoed from the eastern horizon—a low, concussive vibration that shook the asphalt beneath Leopold’s polished shoes. Five miles away, toward the industrial waterfront, a thin plume of dark smoke began to smudge the clean evening sky.

“Your daughter’s little audio show bought you two hours, Leo,” Moretti continued, the laughter fading into a cold, venomous hiss. “Bring whatever men you have left to the docks before midnight. Let’s finish what your father started thirty years ago.”

The line went dead with a hollow beep.

Leopold lowered the phone. He looked through the tinted window of the Suburban, meeting Cleo’s wide, solemn eyes one last time. She gave him a tiny wave with her small hand, clutching her broken bear against her chest.

Leopold tapped the roof of the SUV twice with his signet ring.

“Drive,” he ordered.

The black Suburban peeled away down the winding gravel drive, its red taillights disappearing into the gathering dusk toward the safety of the northern compound.

Leopold stood alone on the stone portico of the gala. He unbuttoned his wool overcoat, letting the cold harbor wind whip through the fabric, revealing the shoulder holster beneath his tailored three-piece suit.

He drew a heavy, matte-black automatic from the leather rig, racked the slide with a crisp, metallic clatter of steel, and began walking toward his own car.