Blood was running from my maid’s mouth when they carried her through the gates of my Manhattan mansion, and the sight of my family crest on her torn uniform changed something inside me. I had seen men die without blinking, but when I looked at Emma Carter and asked, “Who did this to you?” every person around me knew the city was about to become very dangerous.

The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel glittered under millions of crystal facets. Champagne flutes clinked in rhythmic harmony with a live string quartet playing Vivaldi, while men in bespoke tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds mingled beneath towering floral arrangements.

When the mahogany doors of the ballroom swung open and I walked in with Marco and two associates flanking me, the music practically stuttered to a halt.

Conversations died down instantly. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry grass. The elite of Manhattan knew better than to invite me to their polite society gatherings—mostly because they knew my presence usually meant someone was about to lose their fortune, their freedom, or both.

Councilman Richard Vance was standing near the stage, shaking hands with a prominent real estate developer, when he saw me approaching. His smooth, politician smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he forced it back onto his face and stepped forward, extending a hand.

"Mr. Castellano! What an unexpected honor," Vance boomed, projecting his voice so the surrounding guests could hear how unafraid he was. "I didn't realize you took an interest in municipal development funds."

I didn't take his hand. I simply stood there, my hands clasped behind my back, looking down at him with an expression of profound, chilling detachment.

Vance’s hand lingered in the air for an awkward second before he slowly dropped it, a nervous flush creeping up his neck. "Can... can I help you with something, Dominic?"

"You're trying to demolish a residential block on 49th Street in Hell’s Kitchen," I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise of the ballroom.

Vance forced a chuckle, trying to regain his footing. "Ah, urban renewal, Mr. Castellano! That’s progress. We’re bringing high-end retail and modern hospitality to a neglected neighborhood. It’s entirely legal, zoned by the city council—"

"It's an eviction racket," I interrupted smoothly. "You've been using strong-arm tactics, cutting utilities illegally, and harassing tenants who have lived there for thirty years."

"That is a baseless accusation!" Vance stammered, his voice rising in panic as several high-profile donors turned to stare. "You have no proof, and frankly, my business dealings are none of your—"

"I don't need proof, Richard. I have a pen," I said, pulling a folded document from my breast pocket and tossing it carelessly onto the silver catering tray of a passing waiter.

Vance picked it up with trembling fingers. As his eyes scanned the first page, all the color drained from his face.

It was a complete forensic audit of his campaign finances, detailing millions in illicit kickbacks from shell companies, unreported real estate bribes, and illegal payoffs to code-enforcement inspectors—along with signed affidavits from the thugs he hired to harass the Hell’s Kitchen tenants.

"Where... where did you get this?" Vance whispered, his voice shaking.

"Does it matter?" I asked, stepping closer so only he could hear. "Here is how this evening is going to end. You are going to step up to that microphone, announce your immediate resignation from the city council for 'personal health reasons,' and permanently drop all eminent domain claims against the tenement block on 49th Street."

"I won't do it!" Vance hissed, his eyes wide with terror. "I’ll fight you in court! The governor is my friend!"

"If you don't announce your resignation by midnight," I replied softly, patting him on the shoulder, "not only will the U.S. Attorney have these documents on his desk before dawn, but I personally ensure that every inmate at Rikers Island knows you're the man who tried to throw disabled kids and cancer patients out onto the winter streets."

I turned on my heel, walking away without waiting for his answer. I didn't need to look back. I knew a broken man when I saw one.

Ten minutes later, as I stepped out into the crisp night air of Fifth Avenue, Marco held open the door of my car.

"Did he do it, Boss?" Marco asked as I slid into the leather seat.

"Listen," I said, gesturing toward the grand entrance of the Plaza.

Through the massive glass doors, we could see Richard Vance stepping up to the podium, sweating profusely under the television cameras, his voice trembling as he announced his resignation from public office.