At 12:24 that afternoon on the Moretti estate driveway, I saw my three-year-old daughter dragging a red crayon across Dante Moretti’s million-dollar car.

Down in the subterranean holding cells beneath the estate, the air was cold, damp, and smelled of stale concrete and copper.

Julian Vance sat strapped to a heavy metal chair beneath a single swinging incandescent bulb. A dark bruise swelled across his jaw where Dante had struck him, and dried blood caked the corner of his mouth.

The heavy iron door creaked open.

Dante Moretti walked into the cell, his charcoal suit immaculate, his expression carved from absolute ice. He pulled up a metal chair, sat down directly in front of Vance, and rested his forearms on his knees.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The silence in the cell was heavier than any threat.

“You always were dramatic, Julian,” Dante finally said, his voice quiet and even. “Blowing up a gallery to settle a decades-old grudge?”

Vance spat a small fleck of blood onto the concrete, offering a grim, humorless smile. “Grudge? No, Dante. It’s business. Empires fall. New ones rise. Your grandfather built this syndicate on blood and extortion; you expected it to last forever in a modern world?”

“It lasted because we had rules,” Dante replied sharply. “We didn't target civilians. We didn't bring families into the crossfire.”

“Oh, spare me the moral superiority,” Vance sneered, straining slightly against the handcuffs. “You think Marco acted alone? You think Santori dreamed up this expansion on his own? Half the federal prosecutor's office in this district is on my payroll. When I release the master backup keys to the DOJ tomorrow morning, your entire syndicate will be indicted under RICO within forty-eight hours.”

Dante didn't flinch. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto Vance with terrifying intensity.

“You won't be releasing anything, Julian.”

“Try and stop me. The dead man’s switch is already set to upload if I don't check in with my offshore handlers every twelve hours.”

Dante studied him for three seconds. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted thumb drive—the very one Vance had stolen from the archive table upstairs.

Vance’s eyes widened slightly.

“Looking for this?” Dante asked calmly.

“That... that was in my coat—”

“My men are thorough,” Dante interrupted. “And our cyber-security unit bypassed your offshore dead-man switch ten minutes ago. Your handlers received a clean bill of health—routed directly from an IP address in Siberia. As far as your network knows, you’re sitting on a beach sipping martinis.”

Vance stared at the thumb drive in Dante’s hand, all color draining from his face. The defiant bravado vanished instantly, leaving behind the desperate, cornered rat he had always truly been.

“What do you want?” Vance whispered, his voice trembling.

“I want every name,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “Every politician, every corrupt judge, every syndicate captain in Boston and New York who backed this play. You’re going to write down every single one of them. And then, Julian... you’re going to spend the rest of your natural life in a federal supermax cell where no one will ever hear your voice again.”

Vance swallowed hard, trembling under the crushing weight of Dante’s gaze. He knew when he was beaten.

“Pen and paper,” Vance choked out. “Just... don't leave me here in the dark.”