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The long mahogany table is a carbon copy of the one in the main dining room, but the purposes couldn’t be more different. This is where we conduct mafia business. Chairs are arranged in a semicircle facing the center like spectators around a coliseum. Capos sit rigidly, flanking both sides of the table, their faces carved from stone and their eyes hungry. Some want blood. Some want justice. Most are still deciding which serves them better.

I stand at Enzo’s right, my fingers pressing into the scar tissue on my knuckles in an attempt to anchor myself. Without that tether, my eyes would drift to Lucia’s position near the back.

Enzo’s decision to make the hearing public is the right way to go, but I can’t ignore the unsettled feeling in my stomach.

At the thought of impending trouble, my first instinct is to look toward Lucia. She’s sitting in a corner, watching the whole thing unfold. We’ve barely spoken since we got on the plane back to New York, but I can feel her green eyes tracking me.

“Dr. Ice,” as I’ve heard a few of the soldatos call her. Dottoressa Ghiacciata. Except she wasn’t icy with me in Naples, and now I don’t know how to handle her presence.

An hour ago, I tried to keep her from this room. Told her she didn’t need to see what was coming.

She crossed her arms and held my gaze without blinking. “He ordered those men to go after me at the hospital, Marco. I earned the right to watch him answer for it.”

After that, I didn’t argue. No use arguing with this woman when she already has her mind made up.

The doors open.

Two soldiers bring in Tomas Greco, his face carrying the smug certainty of a man who still believes he has cards to play. He came dressed for a night he didn’t expect to end this way, his pressed shirt and slicked-back silver hair giving him the look of a man about to appear in front of the media.

“Tomas.” Enzo’s voice booms across the room without effort. “You’ve been charged with conspiracy against the famiglia, information trafficking with the Volkov Bratva, and orchestrating an attempt on my enforcer’s life.”

Tomas’s eyes flick to me, his contempt undisguised. “Your underboss is a disgraced fighter with no knowledge of the Benedetti way. This is who you trust with the future of the famiglia?”

The hall goes silent.

I offer no reaction, refusing to grant him the dignity of a response. Enzo continues. “The evidence against you is substantial. We have recorded calls, financial records, and testimony from Volkov soldiers who’ve chosen cooperation over execution.”

“Evidence can be faked.” Tomas grits his teeth. “You would know, Enzo. You manufactured your way into that seat.”

A sharp murmur runs through the crowd. Vito Moretti shifts uncomfortably, and Rocco Benedetti’s eyes narrow.

Discomfort spreads fast around the seated capos. The old guard might believe Tomas’s lies because they’re not ready to accept that power has shifted away from the path they’ve always known.

Before anyone can act, I take one step forward, and all the attention swings to me.

“You want to question my place in this family?” I keep my voice quiet and intentionally cold. “Question my loyalty? My willingness to bleed for the man who gave me purpose when I had nothing?”

I stride closer to Tomas, my movements measured. My shoes click against the marble floor like a countdown. When he squirms, the soldiers tighten their grips on his shoulders.

“Three days ago, I took a bullet for this family. What have you done, Tomas, besides line your pockets with Russian blood money while pretending to serve the Benedetti name?”

Tomas flushes. “You know nothing about service, boy. I was running crews when you were still in diapers.”

“You were running crews that belonged to Gabi Sr.” I’m inches from him at this point. “Crews you handed to his son even when the latter proved himself unworthy. And now you would hand them to anyone who can pay you off.”

The accusation hits the room hard, and several capos shift in place.

Enzo speaks again, his voice full of judgment. “Tomas Greco, for your crimes against the Benedetti family, you are hereby stripped of your rank, your crews, and your protection. Your sentence is death.”

Tomas’s composure shatters, and he lunges against the soldiers’ grips. “You can’t do this! I have allies⁠—”

I move fast, feeling the wild, brawling temper of my kickboxing days dance through me as I throw my fist at him. My first punch breaks Tomas’s nose. Cartilage gives way with a sickening crunch, and warm blood spews across my knuckles. The second hit cracks his ribs. The third knocks him to the floor, where I continue to kick him as red pools across the black marble.

A loud gasp cuts through the air behind me. I know the voice, and I can detect her fear, but I can’t let myself consider it, can’t think about those green eyes watching me become exactly what I’ve always feared I am.

I pull Tomas up by his collar, my fist drawn back for the finishing blow, and that’s when he makes his move.

He goes from hanging limp in my grasp to twisting and using my momentum against me. He lunges not toward the exit, not toward Enzo, but toward the back of the room.