Dominic arrogant enough to humiliate a three-year-old girl and knock charity from a supposedly helpless man's hands just to posture inside an establishment he didn't even own

Marcus Morello froze. His confident grin vanished in half a heartbeat, the color draining from his fair, ruddy cheeks. His four bodyguards reached instinctively inside their coats, but before their hands could touch leather, the rhythmic racking of thirty assault rifles echoed from the mezzanine above.

Every single Chicago operative was painted with three crimson laser dots—centered on their chests, their throats, and their foreheads.

"Don't do it, boys," Rocco murmured, walking slowly down the marble stairs. "It takes a lot of time to clean brains off Carrara marble."

Morello raised both hands into the air, his fingers trembling slightly. "Rocco... we were told you were in Europe."

"You were told what Dominic wanted you to believe, Marcus," Rocco said, stopping three paces away. He was dressed in a pristine charcoal three-piece suit now, his beard neatly groomed, his thick dark hair combed back with razor precision. "You thought you could cross state lines, bribe my nephew, and buy Fourth Street out from under my nose?"

"It was just business, Rocco!" Morello stammered, trying to summon an ounce of syndicate diplomacy. "The logistics consortium... we thought the Castellano board had authorized the divestment! We brought five million in bearer bonds! We’re willing to negotiate an equitable split!"

"You sent thugs to beat an eighty-year-old baker with an iron crowbar, Marcus," Rocco replied softly. "In my city. On my soil."

"That was Dominic's crew!" Morello yelled, pointing at the bound manager. "Dominic told us he would handle the local clearance! We had nothing to do with the muscle!"

Dominic thrashed against the iron chair, sobbing through his bloody lip. "Uncle Rocco, he's lying! Morello told me he’d kill my mother if I didn't sign the transfer today! He threatened our family!"

Rocco walked over to the leather briefcases resting on the floor. With the toe of his polished shoe, he kicked one open.

Stacks of crisp bearer bonds and forged land deeds spilled across the pristine marble.

Rocco looked at the papers, then back at Morello.

"You brought paper to take my empire, Marcus," Rocco whispered, each word dropping like a lead weight. "Now let me show you what paper costs in New York."

Rocco reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gold Dupont lighter. He struck the flint. A clean blue flame flickered to life in the quiet lobby.

He bent down, touching the flame to the corner of the five-million-dollar bearer bond stack.

Morello gasped, lunging forward half a step before the laser dots on his chest flared brighter. "Rocco! That's five million dollars! Are you insane?!"

The fire caught the bond paper, spreading rapidly across the stacked certificates, sending curling plumes of gray smoke and burning ash floating up toward the glass atrium.