Merrilee stood in heartbreak as Drusilla unpinned the Penrose family crest from her cardigan

Pier 9 smelled of brine, diesel exhaust, and rotting timber.

The rain had tapered off into a thick, clammy sea fog that rolled off the dark waters of the bay, muffling the distant hum of the city. At the end of the long wooden pier stood the historic Penrose boathouse—a two-story weathered structure that had served as the syndicate’s private smuggling hub since the Prohibition era.

Two black Cadillacs with Illinois plates pulled slowly through the open chain-link gates, their headlights sweeping across the empty asphalt.

Anthony Moretti stepped out of the lead car, accompanied by five armed soldiers in heavy overcoats. He lit a cigarette, cupping his hand against the ocean breeze, his eyes scanning the quiet building.

"Where are her cars?" one of the soldiers muttered, resting his hand inside his coat near his holster. "She said she was meeting us here."

"Relax," Moretti sneered, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the fog. "The woman just had her brother murdered. She’s probably puking her guts out in the office. Let’s get the signatures, secure the harbor master’s seal, and bury her in the swamp before sunrise."

They walked up the wooden ramp of the boathouse, their leather shoes thumping against the wet planks.

Moretti pushed open the heavy pine door.

The interior was illuminated by a single overhead utility bulb dangling from an exposed rafter. At the center of the cavernous room sat a heavy oak desk.

Behind the desk sat Anselm Penrose.

He was wearing a fresh three-piece charcoal suit, entirely clean of dust. His fingers were laced together on the blotter, his gold signet ring catching the yellow light. Beside his right hand rested a lead crystal tumbler filled with aged bourbon.

Moretti froze on the threshold, the cigarette dropping from his open mouth onto the floorboards.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Anthony," Anselm said smoothly.

"What the hell is this?" Moretti barked, his hand darting instinctively into his coat. "Where is Drusilla?"

Before Moretti’s fingers could clear his holster, the shadows around the perimeter of the boathouse came alive.

From behind stacks of shipping crates and overhead catwalks, eight Penrose operators appeared, their submachine guns raised, red laser sights painting dozens of crimson dots across the chests and foreheads of the six Chicago men.

"I’d keep your hands flat against your sides, Anthony," Cassian’s voice drifted down from the catwalk above. "Unless you want your boys picking your brains out of the rafters."

Moretti slowly raised his hands, his face flushing crimson with a mixture of fury and humiliating dread. "Anselm. You set us up."

"You came into my city, Anthony," Anselm said, rising slowly from the desk. "You burned my warehouse. You killed four men who had wives and children in Staten Island. And you made a deal with a disgraced woman to put a bullet in my three-year-old daughter."

"It was business, Penrose!" Moretti yelled, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead despite the sea chill. "Chicago wanted an entry point! The girl was collateral! We didn't know—"

"You knew exactly who she was," Anselm interrupted, walking around the desk until he was three feet from Moretti. "She is a Penrose. And anyone who touches my blood pays with theirs."

"You kill me, and my uncle brings the entire Chicago outfit down on your head!" Moretti snarled, trying to summon the arrogance of his name. "You can't fight a two-front war, Anselm! The commission will tear you apart!"

Anselm looked at him with eyes that held no anger—only the terrifying, infinite void of a man who had already passed judgment.

"Your uncle isn't coming, Anthony," Anselm said quietly. "Twenty minutes ago, Don Silvio and Don Mateo placed a conference call to the Chicago Commission. They were informed that you went rogue, violated territory treaties, and attempted to assassinate a sitting capo without council approval."

Moretti’s eyes widened in sudden, horrific comprehension. "No... they wouldn't give me up..."