A seven-year-old boy stopped me outside school and asked me to walk him home because “nobody believes me.” He had no idea I was Dante Moretti—known in certain circles as “The Wolf,” the man who controlled half the city’s underground empire—but when he opened his front door, I recognized something inside that house connected to a betrayal my organization had been hunting for years.

By midnight, the rain had stopped, leaving a quiet, mirror-like sheen over the streets of Chicago.

The 88th Street grain facility was surrounded by black SUVs. My private security forces had completely secured the area, sweeping away the remains of Marco’s mercenary force before any local law enforcement even received a call.

Arthur Vance and the surviving members of his financial ring were loaded into the back of an armored van, bound for a private airfield where my legal team and federal liaisons were waiting to process their complete, recorded confessions.

Inside my primary sedan, Owen was wrapped in a thick wool blanket, eating a warm sandwich that Leo had retrieved from a twenty-four-hour diner down the street.

I stood outside the car with Vincent, watching the lights of the city skyline reflect off the dark waters of the lake.

"What happens to the ledger?" Vincent asked, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a plain brass lighter.

"It goes into the vault at the headquarters," I replied, watching the smoke drift up into the crisp night air. "Along with Marco’s assets. The three hundred million you hid six years ago will be placed into a private trust."

Vincent looked at me sideways. "A trust for who?"

I pointed toward the sedan where Owen was happily chewing his sandwich, his small dog—a stray he had found near his grandmother's porch—now sleeping on the floorboards beside him.

"Fifty percent goes to Owen Keller’s educational and personal trust," I said. "The other fifty percent goes to funding orphanages and youth centers across the West Side. We’re done with dirty money, Vincent."

Vincent let out a long breath, a genuine, rare smile softening his weathered features. "Your father would think you’ve gone soft."

"My father died in a prison hospital because he trusted men like Marco," I said firmly. "I’m making sure this city operates on a new set of rules."

"And what about me?" Vincent asked, setting his hand on the open car door. "I’m still a dead man on paper."

"Then stay dead," I said, looking my old friend in the eye. "Take Martha and Owen. Move to the estate in Vermont. Live a clean life, Vincent. You've earned it."