By three o'clock in the morning, the rain had stopped, replaced by a dense, freezing fog that blanketed the streets of East Boston.

Inside the private office of Vincenzo’s, the air was warm, smelling of clean linen, fresh coffee, and rubbing alcohol.

Alessandro sat upright on the leather sofa, his chest tightly wrapped in white industrial bandages. He was wearing a clean black cotton shirt that one of the kitchen staff had left in the locker room, his heavy charcoal suit jacket draped over the chair.

Mila was fast asleep on the soft rug beside the fireplace, wrapped securely in Alessandro’s heavy wool coat, her small head resting on a throw pillow.

Elena sat in the executive chair behind the mahogany desk, a mug of black coffee held between her cold hands.

"He tried to kill me at nine o'clock," Alessandro spoke softly, breaking the hours-long silence. He was staring at the small fire crackling in the hearth. "My underboss. A man named Marco Rossi. I stood as godfather to his eldest daughter."

"Why?" Elena asked, taking a slow sip of her coffee.

"Greed is a simple disease, Elena," Alessandro replied, his raspy voice steady now. "A syndicate from New York offered him thirty percent of the shipping terminals if he cleared the throne. Marco thought I was getting soft because I refused to allow synthetic narcotics through the North End docks."

Elena looked at the hard, scarred man sitting across from her. "Are you soft?"

Alessandro turned his dark gray eyes toward her, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips. "Ask Marco when I see him again."

The absolute coldness in his tone made a shiver run down Elena's spine, but she didn't look away.

"What happens now?" she asked. "You can't stay here forever."

"At six in the morning, my loyal captains will realize I missed the midnight council meeting," Alessandro explained, leaning his head back. "Marco will claim I was ambushed by New York. He will try to declare himself acting boss before my brother arrives from Chicago."

He looked at the desk phone resting beside Elena’s coffee mug.

"I need to make one phone call," Alessandro said. "To my consigliere, Matteo. But Marco has tapped the main lines. If I call from a registered number, they will track the tower location within four minutes."

Elena reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out her battered, cracked-screen smartphone, and set it on the desk.

"Nine percent battery," she said. "No contract. It’s a prepaid burner I use for shift scheduling."

Alessandro looked at the cheap plastic phone, then at Elena.

"If Marco’s men trace this phone later," Alessandro warned, "they will come for whoever owns it."

"They don't know who owns it," Elena said flatly. "I bought it with cash at a gas station six months ago. Use it."

Alessandro picked up the small phone with his massive, calloused fingers. He dialed an eleven-digit number from memory, pressed the phone to his ear, and waited.

"Matteo," Alessandro said the moment the call connected.

A sharp gasp came through the small speaker, followed by a rapid volley of hushed Italian.

"Listen to me," Alessandro interrupted coldly. "Marco moved tonight. He missed. I am alive."

Another quick exchange of words.

"No," Alessandro commanded. "Do not move the guards to the house. Let Marco think he succeeded. Tell the captains that I am missing. Assemble the inner circle at the iron foundry in South Boston at eight o'clock tonight."

Alessandro paused, his eyes settling on Elena, who was quietly wiping the coffee desk.

"And Matteo," Alessandro added, his voice dropping into a register of iron. "Bring two million dollars in uncirculated cash to Vincenzo’s in forty minutes. And a clean car. No escorts."

He hung up the phone, set it back on the desk, and looked at Elena.

"You saved my life tonight, Elena," Alessandro said quietly.

"I helped a man who was dying in the rain," Elena corrected, taking her phone back. "There's a difference."

"Not in my world," Alessandro said. He stood up slowly, clutching his side as his broken ribs protested, and walked toward the desk. He looked down at her—at her worn clothes, her exhausted hazel eyes, her fiercely protective posture over her sleeping child.

"What is your price, Elena?" he asked.

Elena blinked. "What?"

"Everyone has a debt," Alessandro said. "You have eighty-six dollars in your account. You live in a basement apartment that smells of damp mold. Your daughter’s boots are falling apart."

Elena’s face flushed red with sudden, fierce humiliation. She stood up, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"I didn't drag you inside to ask for your money!" she snapped, her voice trembling with pride. "I don't sell kindness, Mr. Moretti!"

Alessandro didn't flinch. He simply stared at her, his storm-gray eyes softening with something resembling profound respect.

"I know you didn't," Alessandro said softly. "That is precisely why I am offering it."