Vivienne shrieked as Adrian closed the distance in half a second.

His massive, tattooed hand shot out with blinding speed, his iron grip clamping around her slender wrist like an industrial vice, hoisting her arm into the brilliant glare of the multi-tiered chandelier.

“ADRIAN, STOP! YOU’RE HURTING ME!” she screamed, thrashing against his grip, her golden gown tearing at the shoulder seam as her designer heels skidded across the marble.

“Marco,” Adrian commanded, his eyes fixed on the jewelry like laser sights. “Jeweler’s loupe.”

Marco stepped forward, pulled an illuminated 30x optical loupe from his breast pocket, and snapped it into Adrian’s waiting palm.

Adrian didn’t break her fingers. He simply pinched the five-carat diamond band between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it off her manicured knuckle with cold, mechanical efficiency, completely ignoring her hysterical cries.

He raised the platinum band to his eye beneath the halogen spotlight.

The inner circumference of the metal revealed the hand-carved cursive he had forged himself nine years ago:

Sempre nel mio cuore. 09-14.

Then, Adrian clicked the micro-LED light on the loupe and inspected the recessed hollow beneath the main emerald-cut diamond.

There, etched with surgical laser precision into the structural platinum prong, was a secondary serial number that matched the USB drive in Rosie’s hand:

REC-DOC: ROMANO-SABOTAGE-001.

Adrian lowered the loupe.

The color had drained from his face, leaving his rugged, tanned skin looking like carved marble. His dark-brown eyes, usually calculating and controlled, burned with an ancient, terrifying flame that made every mob boss in the room take an involuntary step backward.

He looked at Emma, the young housekeeper standing by the entrance doors.

“Emma,” Adrian spoke, his voice smooth, level, and lethal as cyanide.

“Yes, Don Adrian?” Emma whispered, trembling in her apron.

“Take Rosie to the private security suite on the third floor. Have four armed guards seal the hallway from the inside. Nobody enters without my retinal scan.”

“Yes, sir,” Emma said, rushing forward, her eyes wet with compassionate tears as she gently gathered Rosie into her arms.

Rosie didn’t cry. The little girl wrapped her arms around Emma’s neck, looked back over her shoulder at Adrian, and pointed her tiny finger at the double doors:

“Go get Mommy, Daddy,” Rosie said softly. “She’s cold.”

Adrian watched Emma carry his daughter through the private elevator doors until the brass gates clicked shut.

Then, the Don of Chicago turned back to face the ballroom.

He reached into his tailored navy jacket, pulled out his custom satin-black Kimber 1911, and racked the slide back with a concussive, authoritative CLACK.

“Lock every door in this estate,” Adrian ordered his men.

“Nobody leaves this room alive until I hear the confession.”

—