"They beat my housekeeper nearly unconscious because she wore my family crest, then left her bleeding in the rain as a warning to me. But the men who attacked Emma Carter made one fatal mistake: they thought hurting someone under my protection would frighten me.

By 3:00 a.m., we were back in the subterranean holding facilities beneath my Manhattan estate.

The room was soundproof, constructed with reinforced concrete walls and a single heavy iron door. Lev Sokolo sat tied securely to a metal chair in the center of the room beneath a bright, clinical fluorescent light. His face was swollen, his nose broken, and his crushed right wrist was bound tightly in a temporary splint Marco had applied to keep him conscious.

I sat in a wooden chair ten feet across from him, sipping a hot cup of black espresso.

On a small metal tray beside me lay Sokolo’s personal belongings—his gold watch, his encrypted satellite phone, and a thick leather notebook containing his private collection records for the Bratva.

“You’re a dead man, Castellano,” Sokolo rasped through his swollen lips, glaring at me with bitter hatred. “Viktor Kolov will bring two hundred men from Brighton Beach. He’ll burn your mansion to the ground. He’ll kill your sister. He’ll kill that fucking maid.”

I took a slow sip of my coffee, setting the porcelain cup down on the metal tray with a soft clink.

“Viktor Kolov does not have two hundred men, Lev,” I corrected him calmly. “He has forty-five active soldiers, twelve of whom are currently facing federal indictments for tax evasion. His income depends entirely on three revenue streams: the dock protection racket at Pier 42, the illegal pharmaceutical distribution out of Queens, and your collection network.”

I picked up his thick leather notebook, flipping slowly through the pages filled with names, dates, and bank account numbers.

Sokolo’s eyes widened slightly as he recognized the ledger.

“Do you know what I see when I look at this book, Lev?” I asked, holding the ledger up in the bright light. “I see seven corrupt NYPD precinct commanders receiving monthly retainers. I see three federal judges taking payouts to delay Bratva trials. And I see the private account numbers of Kolov’s offshore trusts in the Cayman Islands.”

Sokolo swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling once again. “How... how did you get those account numbers?”

“You wrote them down on page forty-two,” I replied softly. “You were planning to steal from him, weren't you? You kept a backup record of Kolov’s hidden money in case he ever decided to replace you.”

Sokolo was silent, sweat dripping from his chin onto his torn collar.

I set the book down and stood up, walking over to the metal chair.

“In thirty minutes,” I said, looking down at him, “my financial team in Zurich will use these security clearance codes to transfer sixty million dollars—Kolov’s entire liquid net worth—into an untraceable charitable trust registered in the name of Emma Carter.”

Sokolo gasped, staring at me in total disbelief. “Sixty... sixty million dollars?! To a housekeeper?!”

“To pay her mother’s medical bills,” I said flatly. “To buy her brother the finest prosthetic legs money can buy. And to ensure that she never has to work another day in her life unless she chooses to.”

I leaned closer, my face inches from his terrifyingly pale face.

“And do you know what Viktor Kolov will do when he lands at JFK airport tomorrow morning and discovers that his bank accounts are empty and his primary ledger was handed over by his favorite enforcer?”

Sokolo began to shake violently, realizing the absolute horror of the trap I had constructed around him.

“He’ll think... he’ll think I betrayed him,” Sokolo whispered, his voice cracking with pure terror. “He’ll think I stole his money and gave it to you.”

“Yes,” I murmured with a cold, terrifying smile. “He will hunt you to the ends of the earth. He will tear this city apart looking for you. And he will realize that while he was busy hurting an innocent girl to send a message... I was busy destroying his entire life.”

I turned to Marco, who was standing near the concrete doorway.

“Put Lev in a secure car,” I ordered. “Drive him to Brighton Beach. Leave him tied up on the front steps of Kolov’s private estate with his ledger empty.”

“No! Please! Castellano, kill me!” Sokolo screamed, thrashing wildly against his restraints as two guards stepped forward to unbolt the chair. “Kill me here! Don't give me to Kolov! He’ll flay me alive! PLEASE!”