The black Maybach glided through the neon-drenched arteries of the lower district, its reinforced tires carving through the rain-slicked asphalt with a low, heavy hiss.

By seven o'clock that evening, Le Clovis was completely silent.

The low jazz music was off. The amber lights were dimmed to low, glowing embers that cast long, dramatic shadows across the pristine white tablecloths and the polished Italian marble floor. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight over the front windows, sealing the interior off from the rain-swept street outside.

There were no wealthy patrons tonight. No corporate executives or federal judges.

Instead, ten of Lorenzo’s senior security operatives—dressed in crisp, dark suits with automatic weapons concealed beneath their jackets—stood silently in the shadows near the coat check, the kitchen entrances, and the upper mezzanine.

Vincent sat at a table near the center of the dining room, casually cleaning his nails with a long, thin steel pocketknife.

At the far end of the room, seated at the finest table beneath the shadow of the grand staircase, sat Nora Hayes.

She wore a dark, tailored emerald-green silk dress that Dr. Wyatt’s team had delivered to the estate two hours prior. The dress was elegant, simple, and high-collared, cleverly concealing the tape strapped around her ribs while emphasizing her long, graceful neck. Her dark hair was styled smoothly back, and though the faint yellow shadow of her bruise was still visible beneath high-end cosmetics, she looked transformed.

She did not look like a victim. She looked like royalty sitting in a fortress.

Lorenzo stood on the mezzanine above, his hands resting on the brass railing, exactly where he had stood the night before when he first saw her fall. He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his dark hair combed back, his dark eyes scanning the floor with absolute, calm mastery.

A soft knock echoed against the heavy glass front doors of the restaurant.

Vincent didn't look up from his pocketknife. “It’s time.”

Thomas unlocked the heavy double doors, swinging one side open.

Frank Bertonelli stepped inside.

He looked terrible. His suit was crumpled, his tie askew, his face pale and slick with cold sweat. His eyes darted frantically around the dim, quiet restaurant, taking in the empty tables, the quiet shadows, and the massive figure of Vincent sitting in the center of the room.

Behind Frank stepped four heavy men wearing dark leather coats. Their hands were shoved deep into their pockets, their knuckles bulging against the fabric—a clear, clumsy attempt to conceal heavy handguns.

“I said alone, Frank,” Lorenzo’s voice rained down from the mezzanine—cool, clear, and dripping with contempt.

Frank flinched, looking up toward the balcony where Lorenzo stood framed by the dim amber light.

“I don't go anywhere alone anymore, Costa!” Frank yelled, his raspy voice echoing off the high ceilings, sounding hollow and pathetic against the silence. “You ruined me! You stripped my family of everything in six hours! You think I’m gonna walk into your execution chamber without insurance?!”

“Your insurance is worthless, Frank,” Lorenzo replied smoothly, beginning a slow, deliberate descent down the grand marble staircase, his leather shoes clicking against the stone in a steady, terrifying rhythm. “Just like your word.”

Lorenzo reached the foot of the stairs, stepping onto the main floor. He didn't look at Frank’s four gunmen. He walked past them as if they were furniture, stopping ten feet away, his hands loosely folded in front of his waist.

“Where is the paperwork?” Lorenzo asked.

Frank reached into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a crumpled stack of legal documents. “It’s here. The transfer of the 12th Street property and the dock warehouses. Everything.”

“Good,” Lorenzo said. “Now, fulfill the second half of your obligation.”

Lorenzo gestured toward the back table where Nora sat.

Frank’s eyes followed the gesture, landing on the woman in the emerald dress. He blinked, a look of utter disbelief washing over his sweat-stained face as he recognized the battered girl he had hunted for twenty-four hours.

“Her?” Frank spat, a dark, hysterical laugh escaping his chest. “You want me to apologize to her? She’s the one who gave my account numbers to your lawyers! She’s the reason Chicago is going to put a bullet in my spine!”

“She gave me the numbers,” Lorenzo corrected him, taking a single step forward that forced Frank’s gunmen to tense their shoulders, “because you decided to terrorize her for a debt that was never hers. You brought violence to her door. You made her bleed.”

Lorenzo’s voice dropped into a dark, terrifying whisper.

“Apologize to Miss Hayes, Frank. Or you will not walk out of this room.”

Frank looked at Lorenzo. Then he looked at his four gunmen standing behind him.