"A 6-year-old girl walked into a room full of dangerous mobsters and shouted 'You listen to me now!' at the most feared boss in New York—until her 4 words made his hands tremble."

Leading them was Victor Vance’s eldest son—Dominic Vance—a thirty-five-year-old, scarred enforcer carrying a short-barrel automatic rifle.

"Caruso!" Dominic Vance screamed, his voice wild and unhinged with predatory triumph. "Your front gate guards are down! The South Side takes your territory tonight!"

Rachel let out a terrified gasp, dropping her invoices, sprinting across the rug to throw her body over Emma in the velvet armchair, shielding her small daughter with her own frame.

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

Vincent’s three captains drawn their weapons instantly, opening fire from behind the mahogany desk.

Gunfire shattered the silence of the mansion. Muzzle flashes illuminated the dark library in bright, terrifying strobes of orange light. Two of Vance's enforcers collapsed onto the rug, but Dominic Vance dived behind the grand leather sofa, sweeping his automatic rifle toward the fireplace.

"Rachel! Get under the desk!" Marco roared, firing three suppressed rounds to cover her move.

Rachel grabbed Emma by her waist, staying low to the carpet, crawling frantically behind the heavy mahogany desk where Vincent stood tall, firing smooth, surgical shots toward the doorway.

Emma’s small hands were wrapped tightly around Rachel’s neck, her face buried into her mother’s shoulder, but she wasn't screaming. She was shaking, her hazel eyes wide with absolute, horrifying realization.

"MISTER VINCENT!" Emma shrieked over the deafening cracks of gunfire.

Vincent looked down for a single fraction of a second.

He saw the fear in Emma’s eyes—the exact same terrifying fear he had seen in his sister Clara’s eyes thirty years ago before she was taken from him.

A dark, blinding rage—ancient, absolute, and lethal—bloomed behind Vincent’s eyes.

He didn't stay behind the desk.

Vincent Caruso stepped out into the open library aisle, his six-foot frame cutting a dark, terrifying shadow against the fireplace flames. He raised his weapon with both hands, advancing straight toward Dominic Vance’s position with cold, unyielding precision.

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

Vincent fired four consecutive rounds through the leather frame of the sofa.

Dominic Vance let out a blood-curdling scream as two high-caliber rounds tore through his shoulder and thigh, knocking his automatic rifle from his hands, sending it sliding across the slick hardwood floor.

Within fifteen seconds, the four invaders were disarmed, pinned to the floor by Marco and six incoming estate security operators.

The library went deathly silent except for the heavy, panting breaths of the wounded enforcers.

Vincent stood over Dominic Vance, his weapon pointed flat at the man’s forehead, his gray eyes holding zero mercy, zero hesitation.

"You brought guns into my home," Vincent whispered, his baritone dropping into a register so dark that even Marco took a half-step back. "Where my family sleeps."

Dominic Vance cowered against the sofa leg, blood pouring from his shoulder, weeping in pathetic, terrified gasps. "Vincent... please... my father sent us... it was Victor's idea—"

"Mister Vincent!" a small, trembling voice cut through the dark air.

Vincent froze.

He turned his head slowly.

Six-year-old Emma stood near the edge of the mahogany desk, her small hand holding her mother’s skirt, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

She looked at the bleeding man on the floor, then looked up at Vincent holding the gun.

"You said..." Emma choked out, her voice raspy and trembling, "you said the boss stops bad things. Don't... don't be a bad thing."

The words hung in the quiet library like a crystal glass suspended in mid-air.

Vincent looked down at the gun in his hand, then looked at Emma’s face—seeing his sister Clara’s memory watching him through those clear hazel eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Vincent lowered his weapon, clicking the safety back into place.

"Marco," Vincent commanded softly, his voice calm and absolute. "Call the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hand Vance’s son and his men over with the full wiretap evidence we gathered on the South Side syndicate last week."