Dawn broke over Boston like a bruised eye, purple and gray.

Raphael walked into Lorenzo Moretti’s private social club in the North End. He walked alone. He didn't need guards. Milo and the rest of his crew had already systematically dismantled Moretti’s defenses overnight. Warehouses were seized. Lieutenants were bought or buried.

Lorenzo sat at a heavy mahogany table, an unlit cigar trembling in his fingers. The grand don of the city looked like an old, frightened man.

Raphael sat across from him. He didn't raise his voice. He simply poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

"You ruined my daughter," Lorenzo spat, trying to salvage his pride.

"You murdered my father," Raphael replied calmly. "And yesterday, you sent men to a hospital to kill a woman who has more grace in her scarred hands than your entire bloodline."

"What do you want, Raphael? The docks? The unions? Take them. Just let me and Isabella leave for Italy."

Raphael leaned forward. He rested his hands on the table, revealing his knuckles, bruised from the hospital corridor.

"I am taking everything, Lorenzo. But you aren't going to Italy. You are going to confess to the District Attorney about the hit fifteen years ago. You will hand over the recordings, the bank transfers, everything."

"I'll die in prison!" Lorenzo gasped.

"If you don't do it," Raphael whispered, "you will die at this table."

Lorenzo looked into Raphael’s eyes. He saw no anger, no rage. He saw a void. The older man finally understood what Raphael’s mother had known all those years ago: you cannot buy a man who no longer fears the dark.

Lorenzo picked up the phone to call his lawyer. The war was over.