Seventy-five-year-old Adelaide Carbone sat weakly beside a stone planter with a decorative metal chain looped around her throat

Nolan spat a mouthful of blood and melted ice onto the stone tiles. He tried to scramble backward, his polished leather shoes slipping uselessly on the wet patio. He looked toward Hattie for support, but she was still curled in the ruined fruit display, weeping silently into her hands. They were entirely alone.

"Sal, you have to listen to me," Nolan stammered, holding his hands up defensively. His American accent was thick with panic. "It wasn't supposed to go down like this. We were just following orders."

"Orders," Salvatore repeated. The word rolled off his tongue slowly, dripping with contempt. "You took orders in my house. Regarding my wife. From a stranger."

Anthony Russo, the senior capo, stepped forward from the garden doors. He adjusted his tailored three-piece suit, his fifty-eight-year-old face carved from decades of ruthless loyalty. He looked at Salvatore, waiting for the command.

"Anthony," Salvatore said, keeping his volume low, his eyes never leaving Nolan. "Lock the garden doors. Secure the perimeter. Nobody leaves this patio until I have a name."

"Done, Boss," Anthony replied smoothly. He signaled to the bodyguards. The heavy wooden doors were pulled shut, and the distinct, heavy click of a deadbolt echoed across the stone. The forty guests shifted uncomfortably, realizing they were now hostages to Salvatore’s wrath.

Salvatore crouched down, balancing effortlessly on the balls of his feet, bringing his angular face mere inches from Nolan’s bleeding nose. The loose strands of dark hair fell over his forehead, masking the cold, dead look in his eyes.

"Every second you waste my time, Nolan," Salvatore whispered, his voice dangerously soft, "I take a piece of your future. You have three seconds to give me a location. One."

"She’s alive! I swear she’s alive!" Nolan cried out, his fair skin turning a sickly shade of gray beneath the bruises. "We didn't hurt her! We just handed her over!"

"Two," Salvatore said, his tattooed fingers casually reaching out to grasp the lapel of Nolan’s expensive, ruined suit.

"The shipyard!" Nolan screamed, throwing his arms over his face to protect himself from another blow. "The old naval shipyard in Brooklyn! Warehouse four!"

Salvatore paused. He slowly released Nolan’s lapel and stood back up in the bright, cinematic sunlight. "Warehouse four. And who is holding her?"