The mafia boss let his wife scream at the waitress—until the waitress calmly switched to French and revealed who was embezzling his money.

Two days after the confrontation at Pier 42, the sun finally broke through the heavy autumn clouds over Manhattan, bathing the concrete towers and green canopy of Central Park in crisp, golden sunlight.

In the high-rise executive suite of the Salvatore Holding Corporation on Fifth Avenue, the air was quiet, smelling of beeswax polish, old leather, and rich espresso.

Dominic sat at his massive walnut desk behind a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city.

On the desk lay two stacks of legal documents stamped with official court seals from Rome, Zurich, and New York.

Sitting across from him was Elena, wearing a tailored navy suit, her posture immaculate as she reviewed the final page of a heavy legal agreement.

Standing in the corner of the office was Vincent, holding a warm mug of coffee, watching the street traffic eighty stories below.

“The Italian courts signed the administrative release order an hour ago,” Dominic said, setting his gold pen down on the desk. “The sixteen million euros seized from Isabella’s Zurich accounts have been formally cleared of secondary claims. The funds are being wired directly to your private trust in Milan this afternoon.”

Elena looked up from the document, her dark eyes reflecting the bright morning light.

“And the Vance Estate property in Livorno?” she asked.

“The resort firm’s bankruptcy filing was processed yesterday,” Dominic said, leaning back in his leather chair. “I bought the land title back from the liquidators through one of my clean commercial trusts. The deed is sitting in that folder under your hand. It’s yours, Elena. All two hundred acres of olive groves and the old stone house.”

Elena reached out, her slender fingers touching the smooth leather folder.

For six years, she had carried no home, no security, and no peace—only a cold, relentless mission to avenge her father’s memory and destroy the people who had stolen her life. Now, sitting in the heart of Manhattan’s elite power center, the mission was complete.

A quiet, soft breath escaped her lips, the tight, iron tension that had held her shoulders straight for six years finally melting away.

“Thank you, Dominic,” Elena whispered, her voice softer than he had ever heard it before.

Dominic looked at her for a long moment, taking in her refined, intelligent face, her total lack of fear, and the sheer brilliance that had brought down two organized crime networks in seventy-two hours.

“You don't need to thank me, Elena,” Dominic said cleanly. “You did the work. You brought the paper trail. You handed me the weapons I needed to clean my own house.”

He reached across the desk, picking up a second, thinner folder bound in cream cardstock.

“There is one more thing,” Dominic said, pushing the cream folder across the polished wood toward her.