I was the mafia boss people in three counties knew as Gabriel “The Saint” Romano, a man whose name could empty a room without anyone raising their voice. But when I found a ten-year-old boy walking alone along a dangerous country road, hiding what had been happening to him because he wanted to protect his exhausted mother, I discovered the people tormenting him were connected to a family already causing trouble inside my organization.

By midnight, the top floor of the Grand Regency Hotel in downtown Philadelphia was locked down. Armed men in dark suits stood at every elevator bank and emergency exit. Inside the mahogany-paneled boardroom, six men sat around a massive table. These were the captains of the Romano organization—men who managed shipping, construction, waste management, and hospitality across three counties.

At the head of the table sat Salvatore Carbone. He was fifty-eight, short, balding, with silver-ringed fingers and an expensive silk tie. He was currently laughing at a joke made by another captain when the double doors swished open.

I walked in, followed by Vincent. The room immediately fell silent. Every man stood out of respect—a mandatory rule in my presence.

"Sit," I commanded, taking my place at the head of the table.

"Gabriel," Salvatore said with an easy, oily smile. "An unexpected meeting for a Tuesday night. Is everything alright with the docks?"

"The docks are fine, Salvatore," I said, leaning back and lacing my fingers together. "I called this meeting to discuss accounting."

A few captains exchanged subtle glances.

"Accounting?" Salvatore chuckled nervously. "Our reports were submitted on the first of the month, Saint. Everything was balanced."

" balanced for your books, perhaps," I said, my voice dropping an octave. The room seemed to plunge five degrees in temperature. "Tell me, Salvatore... how is your grandson, Leo, doing in school?"

Salvatore froze. The color drained from his face so fast it was like watching paint dry. "My... my grandson? He's fine, Gabriel. A bit troublesome, like all ten-year-olds—"

"He's an extorter," I interrupted flatly. "He leads a small gang of bullies who beat ten-year-old boys along Route 17, taking their money and putting it into white envelopes. Envelopes that end up in a gray sedan registered to your nephew, Dominic."

The other captains in the room gasped slightly, pulling back from Salvatore as if he had suddenly caught a contagious plague. In the Romano family, touching children or bringing heat down through juvenile crime was an unforgivable offense.

"Gabriel, wait!" Salvatore stammered, raising his hands. "I know nothing about this! Dominic is a rogue! If he's using the boys—"

"Do not lie to me, Salvatore," I roared, slamming my palm on the table. The noise echoed like a gunshot. "Dominic doesn't move a dime without your say-so. You thought you were clever. You wanted to build an off-the-books slush fund using untraceable cash stolen from working-class families, testing whether my lieutenants were paying attention to the neighborhoods!"

Salvatore began to sweat profusely, his eyes darting toward the exits. "Gabriel... please. It was a mistake. A minor operation—"

"A minor operation?" I stepped toward him, my tall frame casting a long shadow over his chair. "Today I picked up a boy named Mason Vance walking along the highway. His feet were blistered. His shirt was torn. He took those beatings for two years because he didn't want his mother—who works sixteen hours a day—to worry."