I’m the mafia boss who thought his mansion was impenetrable—until I came home early and the maid I’d ignored for three years dragged me into a closet, because the armed men waiting to kill me were led by the nephew I’d raised as my own.

We left Jim’s house the same way we’d found it.

No calls to the police. No touching anything.

Some wars you fight with lawyers and judges.

This one would be fought the old way.

We were back in the car, peeling out of the subdivision before the neighbors even noticed anything was wrong.

Elena was driving fast. Too fast. Her knuckles were white on the wheel.

“He knew,” she said, her voice tight. “Marcus knew we’d come here first. He’s been one step ahead of us this whole time.”

I stared out the window at the passing houses. White picket fences. Happy families. None of them knew a war was raging right outside their doors.

Jim was dead.

The first domino.

Marcus had killed him to send a message. To let me know he was waiting. That every move I made was being watched.

“Who’s next on the list?” Elena asked.

“Tommy ‘Two Fingers’ Rizzo.” No relation to Frankie. “Runs the numbers out of Atlantic City. He’s got three hundred men under him. If we get Tommy, we get the boardwalk.”

“Will he stand with us?”

I thought about it.

Tommy was a survivor. He’d switched sides three times in his career. Went wherever the power was. If Marcus made him a better offer—

“He’ll listen,” I said. “That’s all we can ask for right now.”

Atlantic City was two hours south.

We took back roads the whole way. No highways. No toll booths. Elena drove like she was being chased—because we probably were.

Halfway there, she spoke.

“Vincent—what if Marcus is right about some of it?”

I looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Even if you didn’t order the hit on your brother—you knew he was weak. You knew he was skimming. You knew he was a liability. Did you ever… wonder? If someone in your organization took it upon themselves to clean up your mess for you?”

The question hung between us.

I’d wondered. God knows I’d wondered. Last night, lying awake in that motel bed, I’d gone over every conversation from those last months with Anthony.

Every warning I’d given him. Every threat. Every time I’d told him, “Clean up your act or someone will do it for you.”

Had one of my men taken me literally?

Had my own carelessness gotten my brother killed?

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Maybe. Back then, I had men who’d do anything to protect me. Anything. Without even asking. If they thought Anthony was a threat—”

I stopped.

Elena glanced at me.

“Either way,” she said softly, “you carry it. Don’t you? Even if you didn’t pull the trigger. Even if you never gave the order. You still feel like it’s your fault.”

I nodded.

She was right. I’d carried it for twenty years. The guilt of not seeing it coming. Of not protecting my own brother. Of letting my anger blind me to the truth.

“Marcus carries it too,” she said. “His own version. He’s not evil, Vincent. He’s just a kid who lost his father and was told the man who raised him did it. Anger is a powerful weapon. The Solomons didn’t have to do much. Just point him in your direction and light the fuse.”

Atlantic City loomed ahead.

Neon signs. Casinos. The smell of salt water and desperation.

Tommy’s office was above a laundromat on the boardwalk. The same place he’d operated out of for twenty years. Said if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

We parked three blocks away.

Elena checked her gun. Checked mine.

“Stick close,” she said. “If anything goes wrong, follow my lead. Not yours. You’re too used to people jumping when you say jump. These days, they’re more likely to shoot.”

I followed her down the boardwalk.

Tourists milled around us. Families eating cotton candy. Old men feeding pigeons. No one gave us a second look. We were just two more people in the crowd.

The laundromat smelled like detergent and hot water. Old ladies sat folding clothes, watching soap operas on the TV above the machines.

At the back, a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Elena tried it. Unlocked.

We went up the narrow stairs. The smell of detergent faded, replaced by cigar smoke and whiskey.

At the top, another door.

Elena knocked. Four times. Pause. Two times. The old signal.

A slot slid open. Two eyes peered out.

The slot slammed shut. Locks rattled. The door opened.

Tommy stood there.

Short. Bald. Missing two fingers on his left hand—hence the name. He held a shotgun in his right.

When he saw me, the shotgun didn’t lower.

“Vincent,” he said. His voice was gravel. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” I said.

He looked past me at Elena. Narrowed his eyes.

“Ricardo’s girl,” he said. “I’d know those eyes anywhere. Heard you were working the Torino house. Knew there was more to it than scrubbing floors.”

He stepped back and waved us in. Lowered the shotgun.

“Close and lock it,” he said to Elena. “We’ve got five minutes before Marcus’s boys do their hourly check-in.”

His office was exactly how I remembered it. Wall to wall bookshelves—all cookbooks. Tommy was famous for his meatballs. A desk covered in ledgers. A safe in the corner.

He poured three glasses of bourbon without asking. Slid two across the desk.

“Drink,” he said. “You look like hell.”

I picked up the glass and downed it in one. Burned going down. Felt good.

“Jim’s dead,” I said.

Tommy nodded. He didn’t look surprised.

“Heard an hour ago. Same as Anthony. One behind the ear. Solomons’ signature.” He leaned back in his chair. “They’re cleaning house, Vincent. Everyone who was there twenty years ago. Everyone who might know the truth. Jim was first. I’m probably next.”

“Then stand with me,” I said. I slid Frankie’s envelope across the desk. “Everything’s in there. Proof the Solomons killed Anthony. Proof they framed me. Proof they’re using Marcus to do their dirty work.”

Tommy opened the envelope. Started reading.

His face got darker with every page.

When he finished, he tossed the papers back on the desk.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Twenty years. Those sons of bitches have been playing us all for fools for twenty years.”

“Stand with me,” I said again. “Help me take back what’s mine. Destroy the Solomons once and for all. Give Marcus back his father’s good name. End this cycle of blood before it kills everyone we love.”

Tommy stared at me.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then he stood up. Walked to the window. Looked out over the boardwalk.

“I was there, you know,” he said quietly. “The night Anthony died. You called me in the middle of the night. Screaming. Crying. Said you were gonna burn the whole city down to get even. I held you back. Told you to be smart.”

He turned around.

“I believed you killed him, Vincent. For twenty years, I believed it. Everyone did. You were capable of it back then. God knows you were capable of anything.”

He picked up the shotgun. Racketed a shell into the chamber.

“But if Frankie says you didn’t—if the papers say you didn’t—then I believe Frankie. And I believe you.”

He set the shotgun on the desk between us.

“You’ve got me, Vincent. Three hundred men. Every number runner on the boardwalk. Every bookie. Every enforcer. Whatever you need.”

Relief flooded me so strong I had to sit down.

One down.

Six to go.

Tommy reached for the phone.

“I’ll make the calls,” he said. “Round up the boys. Meet us at the warehouse on Division Street at midnight. But Vincent—”

He looked me dead in the eye.

“Marcus is already there. He moved into your downtown office yesterday. Brought the Solomons with him. They’re expecting you. They want this to end tonight. One way or the other.”