Dominic sat frozen in his leather chair, his eyes glued to the black-and-white camera monitor. The silence of his study was deafening.

The rain lashed against the neon signs of downtown Chicago as night fell.

The Red Velvet Lounge was an opulent, multi-story nightclub owned by the Moretti syndicate, filled with thumping bass, flashing red lights, and hundreds of wealthy patrons drinking expensive champagne.

On the third floor, away from the noise of the dance floor, sat Vincent Hale's private executive suite.

Downstairs in the parking alley, a blacked-out delivery van pulled up.

The rear doors opened, and Dominic Moretti stepped out, wearing a dark tactical turtleneck and a leather shoulder holster. Behind him came Gideon Marsh and four heavily armed Orsini soldiers.

And beside them stepped Evelyn. She had discarded her maid uniform, wearing a sleek black jumpsuit provided by Gideon, her auburn hair pulled back into a tight braid. She looked formidable, capable, and striking.

"Security cameras on the third floor are jammed for the next twenty minutes," Gideon reported, looking at his tablet. "Vincent is currently downstairs in the VIP section drinking with Blackwood’s men. The office is empty."

"Good," Dominic said. He turned to Evelyn. "You stay behind Gideon at all times. If a single shot is fired, you drop to the floor."

"Understood," Evelyn nodded.

They moved through the private service elevator, slipping out onto the quiet third-floor hallway. Gideon’s team quickly breached the lock on Vincent’s office door, stepping inside and securing the room.

The office was lavishly decorated in red velvet, gold leaf, and dark oak. Behind the massive desk hung a large oil painting of Chicago.

Gideon swung the painting aside, revealing the heavy silver safe embedded in the wall.

"You've got twelve minutes before the camera loop resets," Gideon warned.

Evelyn stepped forward, pulling a small tool kit from her jumpsuit pocket. She pulled off the keypad cover, exposing the ribbon wire beneath. With steady, practiced hands, she attached a small copper jumper wire between the secondary relay terminals.

CLICK. BEEP.

The digital lock turned green without sounding the internal alarm.

Evelyn turned the heavy wheel, and the safe door swung open.

"Done," she breathed, stepping back.

Dominic stepped up, reaching inside. He pulled out two thick leather-bound ledgers and a black flash drive labeled PROJECT BLACKWOOD.

He opened the first ledger. His eyes scanned the pages filled with names, dates, offshore bank accounts, and hitman payouts.

"It’s all here," Dominic said, his voice cold as ice. "Ten years of bribery. Proof of the ambush. Proof that Vincent ordered the hit on Mateo."

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the office swung open.

"Well, well, well," a voice sneered from the doorway. "Look who decided to audit my books."

Vincent Hale stood in the doorway, holding a high-caliber pistol. Behind him stood eight heavily armed mercenaries dressed in Blackwood’s coat of arms.