THE HOMELESS DOCTOR SIGNED ONE TERRIFYING WARNING TO THE DEAF MAFIA BOSS—THEN HE HEARD HIS FIANCÉE CONFESS TO THE BETRAYAL THAT STOLE THREE YEARS OF HIS LIFE

Sabrina took two quick steps backward, her face instantly transforming into her practiced mask of wide-eyed, innocent terror.

"Dominic!" she cried out, her hands flying to her chest, her lips moving with exaggerated precision. "Oh thank God! Someone cut the power! There are men in the house—"

"Shut up, Sabrina."

The voice didn't come from her father.

It came from Dominic.

The three words rolled across the high-ceilinged study like heavy artillery fire—clear, precise, modulated, and carrying a terrifying, absolute authority that shattered the air in the room.

Sabrina froze. Her mouth remained half-open, her eyes wide with a horror so profound that her skin turned the color of damp chalk.

Paul Marchetti stumbled back against the safe, his hand flying toward his shoulder holster.

"Don't," Dominic said softly, his voice dropping into a register so cold it seemed to freeze the blood in Paul’s veins. "If your hand touches the leather, Paul, you won't live to hear the rest of my sentence."

Paul’s hand froze two inches from his coat.

"You..." Paul stammered, his eyes darting frantically from Dominic’s left ear to Nora, who stepped into the room behind him, holding her weapon steady. "You can hear..."

"I heard everything," Dominic said.

He stepped into the room, his long strides slow and deliberate.

"I heard you talk about Mateo," Dominic said, stopping five feet from the desk. "I heard you laugh about his death. I heard you complain about how hard it was to pretend to love a man who couldn't hear your lies."

Sabrina’s knees buckled. She caught the edge of the desk to keep from falling, tears of pure, desperate panic finally breaking through her makeup.

"Dominic... please..." she sobbed, stepping toward him, her hands raised in a posture of pleading. "They forced me! My father... he forced me to do it! He threatened to kill me if I didn't stay with you!"

Dominic looked at her.

He didn't look angry. He looked at her as if she were a dead insect lying on a polished table—something ugly that needed to be swept away.

"You used one sign language gesture in three years, Sabrina," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "'Good night.'"

He raised his left hand and signed it once—a sharp, final downward movement of his palm across his face.

"Good night, Sabrina," Dominic spoke aloud.

The heavy double doors of the study flew open.

Gio Renzo stepped into the room, followed by four heavy-set men wearing dark wool overcoats and carrying automatic carbines.

They were not Marchetti’s men.

They were the senior captains of the Chicago delegation—the men who controlled the national syndicate’s disciplinary board. Standing in the center of them was Uncle Bernardo Ferraro, seventy-two years old, his silver hair neatly combed back, his dark eyes fixed on Paul Marchetti with absolute, lethal disgust.

"Bernardo..." Paul whimpered, falling to his knees on the carpet. "It’s a mistake... the boy is unstable..."

Uncle Bernardo didn't look at Paul. He looked at Dominic.

"We heard the transmission from the gatehouse, Dominic," Bernardo said, his voice deep and raspy from fifty years of cigars. "Gio patched the audio through to our car ten minutes ago."

Bernardo stepped forward, placing a heavy, ringed hand on Dominic’s shoulder.

"Your father built this family on honor, nephew," Bernardo said softly. "These two dogs broke the blood oath. They belong to you."

Dominic looked at Paul Marchetti weeping on the floor, and then at Sabrina, who had collapsed into a chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with hysterical, silent sobs.

"Take them to the docks," Dominic commanded quietly. "Put them in the cellar with Wexler. The Federal Bureau of Investigation will receive an anonymous tip regarding the location of Mateo’s missing financial ledgers at six AM."