The heavy bullet tore through the reinforced glass, leaving a web of spiderweb fractures around a neat, deadly hole.

The sight of Don Falcone bleeding into his silk handkerchief broke the last remnants of his authority over the Commission.

Don D'Angelo raised his hand, signaling his bodyguards to stand down. "The Commission calls for order! Lower your weapons—all of you!"

The surrounding bodyguards slowly backed away, tucking their firearms into their jackets.

Adrien stepped up beside me, placing his hand gently on the small of my back, his presence a towering mountain of absolute security.

"Falcone," I said coldly, walking around the table until I stood right beside his chair. "Your treason ends tonight. Twenty years ago, you paid Marcus Blake’s father to leak the security protocols of my family’s estate. You ordered the hit on my mother. And for two decades, you’ve skimmed off the Moretti trust accounts while lying to the Commission."

"You have no proof!" Falcone hissed through gritted teeth, sweat pouring down his pale forehead.

I reached into my velvet clutch and pulled out a black leather ledger—the master accounting journal Adrien’s men had seized from Marcus Blake’s safehouse three days prior. I tossed it onto the center of the table in front of Don D'Angelo.

"Page forty-two," I informed the council. "Direct wire transfers from the Falcone construction front to the offshore accounts of every assassin involved in the 2006 massacre. Signed in Falcone’s own handwriting."

Don D'Angelo opened the ledger, his eyes scanning the columns of numbers and signatures. His face darkened into a mask of pure rage.

"You lied to us, Falcone," D'Angelo said softly, looking up at the groveling Don. "You told the Commission the Moretti family had attacked your territory first. You used us to execute an unsanctioned purge."

"D'Angelo, listen to me—" Falcone begged.

"The Commission does not tolerate traitors who bring chaos to our streets," D'Angelo interrupted, turning his gaze toward Adrien and me. "Don Viscari, Elena Moretti... what is your demand?"

Adrien looked down at me, placing the decision entirely in my hands. He was giving me my power back—the power that Marcus and Falcone had spent years trying to strip away.

I looked at the trembling, bloody old man who had destroyed my childhood.

"Strip him of his rank," I commanded clearly. "Seize every asset belonging to the Falcone family and distribute half to the families who suffered under his rule, and the other half to the Moretti Restoration Fund. As for Falcone himself..."

I paused, looking into Adrien’s dark grey eyes.

"He will spend the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison in upstate New York... right across the street from Marcus Blake."

Don D'Angelo smiled grimly. "A just verdict. It shall be done immediately."

Two heavy-set enforcers grabbed Falcone by his arms, dragging him out of the grand ballroom as he screamed curses and threats that were swallowed up by the thick velvet carpets.

When the heavy doors closed behind him, the remaining Dons stood up from their chairs one by one.

Don D'Angelo raised his glass of red wine. "To Elena Moretti. The Queen of New York. And to Don Adrien Viscari. May their union bring a hundred years of peace to our city."