THE BOSS'S TABLE: A NANNY'S PROMISE

The tracking signal led to an abandoned commercial meatpacking warehouse along the East River in Long Island City.

Inside the rusted facility, six armed mercenaries surrounded the locked office where Lucia and Marco were held. Standing over them was Vincent Marcone—Victor’s longtime syndicate rival who had been seeking revenge for losing control of the Brooklyn freight corridors.

"Call Victor Rinaldi," Marcone sneered to his lieutenant. "Tell him if he wants his heir and his nanny's brat alive, he signs over the terminal shipping rights in Manhattan by sunset."

Suddenly, the steel reinforced bay doors of the warehouse were blown off their hinges in a deafening, concussive explosion.

Tear gas and flashbangs illuminated the dark warehouse in blinding white bursts.

Through the smoke marched twenty elite Rinaldi tactical operators in heavy black armor, moving with ruthless, textbook military precision. Within sixty seconds, four of Marcone’s gunmen were neutralized, and the remaining guards threw down their weapons, dropping face-down onto the concrete floor.

Footsteps clicked against the stone.

Victor Rinaldi walked through the shattered entrance, dressed in his black suit, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous intent.

Marcone scrambled backward, drawing a silver revolver with trembling hands. "Rinaldi! Stay back! I swear I’ll shoot the brats!"

Before Marcone could cock the hammer, Victor lunged forward with blinding speed. In one fluid motion, he twisted Marcone’s wrist, disarming the weapon with a sickening crunch of bone, and slammed Marcone face-first onto a steel prep table.

Victor’s 9mm pistol pressed directly against the base of Marcone’s skull.

"You brought violence near my children, Vincent," Victor growled, his voice vibrating with lethal finality.

"Victor... please!" Marcone gasped, choking on his own blood. "It was business! Just business!"

"Touching my family is not business," Victor said coldly. "It is an execution sentence."

Behind the office partition, the door clicked open.

Marco stepped out, holding seven-year-old Lucia’s hand tightly, shielding her from the sight of the neutralized mercenaries.

"Dad!" Marco shouted.

Victor looked up. The murderous rage in his eyes instantly dissolved into raw, overwhelming relief.

He lowered his weapon, signaling his lieutenants to secure Marcone for federal transport, and dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, opening his arms wide.

Marco and Lucia sprinted across the warehouse, throwing their arms around Victor’s neck in a desperate, weeping embrace.