"My wife smiled through our family portrait while hiding a broken arm—then I zoomed in on the hard edge under her glove."

Dominic stood in the subterranean monitoring room beneath the garage. Beside him stood his head of security, Sal Bruno—a quiet, stone-faced veteran who had served Dominic’s father for twenty years.

On the wall of glowing monitors, the security footage from the Grand Meridian Hotel’s underground garage played in high definition.

"Look closely at the twelve-second mark, Boss," Sal pointed to the lower left monitor.

The video showed the Meridian garage three nights earlier. Dominic was seen walking toward a tripped fire alarm near the elevator bank. In the upper corner, a masked man holding a heavy iron reinforcing bar stepped out from behind a concrete pillar, aiming a blow straight at the back of Dominic’s head.

Clara stepped into the frame, shoving Dominic out of the line of sight. The iron bar struck her left forearm with crushing force.

"Now watch who steps out from the service corridor two seconds before the attacker appears," Sal said, tapping a key to zoom in on the background.

A figure in a dark trench coat walked out of the utility room, tossed a small device toward the fire alarm, and then made a subtle hand gesture toward the masked attacker.

The face under the utility lights was unmistakable.

Leo Navarro.

Dominic felt an icy chill drop through his veins.

"Leo didn't just cover up her injury, Boss," Sal said grimly. "Leo hired the attacker. The masked guy was an independent muscle from South Jersey named Tommy Vane. Leo paid him fifty grand to stage an attack that would look like a Falco hit. But Vane missed your head because Mrs. Carretti stepped in."

"Where is Tommy Vane now?" Dominic asked, his voice chillingly calm.

"Leo told you Vane fell during his escape and was unconscious," Sal replied, pulling up a secondary file. "Truth is, Leo’s personal enforcers picked Vane up at the hospital gates two hours later. They’re holding him in an abandoned auto body shop in Newark until the Falco war starts."

Dominic stared at the screen.

His own blood. His cousin. A man he had trusted with the family’s legal accounts and diplomatic channels for fifteen years, orchestrating an ambush on his life and causing his wife’s broken arm, all to ignite a turf war that would allow Leo to seize the North River docks for his own private smuggling lines.

"Sal," Dominic spoke softly, every syllable falling like lead.