The formal dining room of the Moretti estate was built in 1920—a grand, cavernous chamber featuring a thirty-foot oak table, heavy red velvet curtains, and portraits of past Moretti Dons staring down from paneled walls.

Vincent Romano sat at the head of the table.

At sixty-two, the head of the Chicago syndicate was a imposing, broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair, a thick mustache, and eyes as cold as a frozen lake. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his heavy gold signet ring clinking rhythmically against the crystal glass of scotch he had poured for himself.

Behind him stood eight Chicago enforcers, their leather jackets unbuttoned, their hands resting near shoulder holsters.

Isabella sat to his right, her posture rigid, a victorious, cruel smirk gracing her lips.

The heavy double doors swept open.

Alessandro stepped into the room alone. He carried no visible weapons, his hands casually tucked into his trousers pockets. Behind him, Leo and four Moretti guards stood at attention near the doorway, their hands clasped firmly behind their backs.

“Vincent,” Alessandro greeted calmly, taking his seat at the opposite end of the long table, thirty feet away from the Chicago Don. “You made poor time from the airport. Traffic on the bridge must have been light.”

Vincent Romano set his scotch glass down with a heavy THUD.

“Cut the pleasantries, Moretti,” Vincent growled, his deep voice booming off the high ceilings. “My daughter called me crying three hours ago. She tells me you put your hands on her, threatened to put her in a box, and insulted the Romano name over a housemaid and her bastard child.”

Alessandro leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. “Isabella exaggerated.”

“Did she?” Isabella snapped, glaring across the table. “You put your hand on the banister! You threatened my life in front of the servants!”

Vincent raised a thick hand, instantly silencing his daughter. He leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the oak table, staring down the length of the room at Alessandro.

“We agreed to this marriage to stop a war that was costing us ten million dollars a month in lost shipping,” Vincent said, his tone turning dangerously sharp. “My family gave you respect. We gave you access to the Great Lakes trade routes. And you repay us by dragging a street whore into your bed and letting her breed in your house?”

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Leo took a subtle step forward, his hand slipping inside his jacket, but Alessandro held up a single finger, stopping his security chief in his tracks.

Alessandro slowly leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the dark wood of the table.

“Careful, Vincent,” Alessandro whispered, his voice carrying a soft, lethal edge that caused the Chicago enforcers behind Vincent to shift uncomfortably. “The woman you are referring to is the mother of my child. And the child is a Moretti.”

Vincent let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “A maid’s child is a mistake, Alessandro! A stain! You pay the girl fifty thousand dollars, throw her out on the street, and you marry my daughter on Saturday like we agreed. That is how real men handle these situations.”

“Is that how you handled your mistakes, Vincent?” Alessandro asked smoothly.

Vincent’s laughter stopped instantly. His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Alessandro didn’t answer right away. He turned his head toward the side door.

Mr. Bruno stepped into the dining room, carrying a heavy, rusted iron chest engraved with the old Moretti family crest. He set the chest down on the table directly in front of Alessandro, unlocked it with an antique brass key, and stepped back.

Alessandro reached inside, pulling out a thick, yellowed ledger tied with a faded red ribbon, along with a stack of old black-and-white photographs.

He slid the documents down the thirty-foot table. They slid smoothly across the polished wood, stopping directly in front of Vincent Romano.

“Thirty years ago,” Alessandro explained softly, his voice echoing in the silent room, “my father, Don Eduardo Moretti, ran a smuggling operation out of Lake Erie with your father. There was a young woman named Sofia who worked in the dockside diner in Cleveland.”

Vincent stared at the yellowed photographs, his face turning from anger to pure, unadulterated shock.

“Sofia had a child,” Alessandro continued, his eyes locked onto Vincent’s pale face. “A baby girl. But when your father found out, he didn’t pay her fifty thousand dollars. He ordered Sofia killed, took the baby, and passed her off as his legitimate daughter to secure his family’s honor.”

Isabella turned her head sharply toward her father, her brows pulling together in confusion. “Father? What is he talking about?”