Emma Moretti was sitting beside her older brother David at the main family table, only for Vincent’s older sister Margaret Moretti to snatch the little girl’s dinner plate away and violently kick the chair out from beneath her

Vincent descended the sweeping marble staircase with the unhurried grace of an emperor entering a gladiatorial arena. Laura walked half a step behind him, her chin held high, radiating the unyielding pride of the Moretti bloodline. Behind them marched six trusted soldiers, their hands tucked inside their dark jackets.

The noise in the ballroom died instantly as Vincent’s polished shoes struck the bottom landing.

Capo Leonard stopped mid-rant, his face flushed red from scotch and manufactured outrage. He was a massive man, built like a brick wall, wearing an ill-fitting navy suit and a thick gold chain. Behind him stood the three northern elders, their expressions grim and hostile.

"Vincent!" Leonard shouted, his loud, abrasive voice bouncing off the high ceiling. "You can't just drag Don Moretti’s eldest daughter out of this room like a common thief! She is family! She is your flesh and blood!"

Vincent continued walking until he was standing three feet from Leonard. The physical contrast was striking—Leonard was wide, loud, and sweating; Vincent was lean, chiseled like a Renaissance sculpture, and as cold as an arctic winter.

"Are you finished shouting, Leonard?" Vincent asked softly. His voice barely carried over the whisper of the chandeliers, yet every person in the hall heard every syllable.

"No, I am not finished!" Leonard barked, puffing out his chest to impress the watching capos. "The council demands an explanation! You humiliate your sister over an adopted stray? A kid with no Moretti blood? The traditions of this syndicate are clear! Succession belongs to blood!"

"Succession belongs to whoever I designate," Vincent replied, his tone chillingly smooth. "And Emma is my family. You insult her again, and you will not leave this room on two legs."

Leonard sneered, taking half a step forward. "You threatening me, boy? I was running cargo out of Boston while you were still in prep school! You think because your father handed you the seat, you can treat the elders like dogs?"

Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't even shift his stance.

"Tell me, Leonard," Vincent murmured, tilting his head slightly, his wavy dark hair catching the golden light. "How much did Marco Valenti wire to your Panamanian bank account yesterday afternoon?"

Leonard froze. The color drained from his ruddy cheeks in an instant, leaving him looking like an unburied corpse. "What... what are you talking about?"

Vincent reached into his inner suit pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He flicked it open with a snap of his wrist.

"Three point two million dollars," Vincent read calmly, his eyes scanning the document. "Sent from a logistics shell corporation in Chicago. Signed off by Valenti’s private legal counsel. Routing number ending in four-four-nine-one."

The surrounding capos gasped. Several lieutenants who had been standing beside Leonard subtly stepped backward, separating themselves from the marked man.

"You took Chicago’s money to orchestrate a coup from the inside," Vincent said, tossing the paper onto the linen table in front of Leonard. "You used Margaret’s bitterness to create a distraction at dinner. You wanted me to strike my sister so you could claim I was unfit, seize control of the docks, and deliver Emma to Chicago as a peace offering."