The sanctuary Damiano Ricci provided was not a luxurious penthouse or a bustling estate, but a discreet, heavily fortified brownstone nestled in a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac of Upper Brooklyn.

Two weeks after the battle at the Long Island estate, the dust began to settle across the New York underworld and the corporate sector alike.

Sal Moretti’s death had created a power vacuum in Queens, which Damiano absorbed swiftly and without mercy, uniting the shipping territories under the Ricci flag. Meanwhile, the federal investigation into Vance Global Capital reached its dramatic conclusion.

On a cold Tuesday afternoon, the federal courthouse in Manhattan was packed with reporters, television cameras, and high-society onlookers.

Marcus Vance stood at the defense table in a bright orange jumpsuit, heavy steel shackles binding his wrists and ankles. His hair was messy, his face gaunt, his polished charm entirely replaced by an air of bitter, defeated malice.

Arya Bennett sat in the front row of the gallery, wearing an elegant dark navy dress, her composure immaculate. Sitting beside her, holding her hand under her coat, was Damiano. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his presence so commanding that even the federal marshals kept a respectful distance.

"In the matter of the United States versus Marcus Vance," the judge's voice echoed through the high-ceilinged courtroom, "on charges of corporate fraud, grand larceny, wire fraud, and attempted physical assault..."

Marcus’s attorney stood up, his voice weak. "Your Honor, my client wishes to enter a plea of guilty to all counts, pursuant to the plea agreement offered by the United States Attorney."

A murmur rippled through the gallery.

The judge shuffled his papers, looking over his glasses at Marcus. "Mr. Vance, before I pronounce sentence, do you have anything to say to this court or to the victim, Miss Arya Bennett?"

Marcus turned his head slowly, his hollow, dark eyes locking onto Arya in the gallery. A bitter, venomous sneer twisted his lips.

"I made her," Marcus rasped into the microphone, his voice dripping with pathetic resentment. "She was nothing before me. She ran to a mobster because she's weak. She thinks she's safe now, but—"

The judge slammed his gavel down violently. "That is enough, Mr. Vance! You have shown zero remorse for your calculated, abusive crimes!"

The judge adjusted his glasses, reading the sentence with cold finality. "Marcus Vance, I sentence you to twenty-five years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville, without the possibility of parole for twenty years. Remand him into custody."

As the federal marshals dragged Marcus toward the side exit, his shackles clanking loudly against the floor, he looked at Damiano one last time.

Damiano didn't sneer. He didn't gesture. He simply sat beside Arya, his arm sliding around her shoulders, pulling her close against his chest as Marcus was swallowed by the dark doorway of the holding cell.

Marcus was gone. The nightmare was officially over.

Arya exhaled a long, deep breath, feeling a heavy weight that had rested on her chest for months finally lift away into nothingness. She looked up at Damiano, who was looking down at her with quiet, proud affection.