By Saturday morning, the syndicate’s governing board—the Council of Five—had convened in the subterranean vault beneath the DeLuca Tower.

It was a windowless, soundproof chamber lined with reinforced steel and mahogany paneling, smelling of old paper, cigar smoke, and absolute power. Around the oval table sat the remaining elder bosses of Chicago’s underworld—men who controlled everything from the shipping docks to the financial district.

At the head of the table sat Roman.

And standing directly beside his right shoulder, wearing a sharp charcoal blazer and holding a leather-bound auditing ledger, stood Elena.

Whispers rippled through the old men around the table. Women did not sit at the Council of Five. Waitresses certainly did not stand where capos used to beg for mercy.

“Roman,” muttered Don Salvatore, an eighty-year-old patriarch with clouded eyes and a gold-headed cane. “Bringing an outsider—a girl from a diner—into the inner sanctum? This violates every protocol our fathers established.”

Roman didn't raise his voice. He leaned back in his leather chair, interlocking his fingers over his chest.

“Protocols change, Salvatore,” Roman said smoothly. “Especially when protocols allowed the Vescari family to steal forty million dollars from our joint accounts over three years while the rest of you nodded along like blind men.”

He gestured to Elena.

“Show them, Elena.”

Elena stepped forward, opening her leather ledger to the first page. She didn't read from notes; she spoke with the cold, absolute authority of a master mathematician.

“In fiscal year 2024, the Vescari syndicate siphoned funds through three front companies registered in the Cayman Islands,” Elena began, her voice echoing clearly off the stone walls. She pointed to specific ledger entries projected onto the smartboard behind the table. “Here are the wire transfer receipts. Here are the forged supervisor signatures from Salvatore’s own logistics division. And here is the proof that Dominic Vescari was planning to hand our western shipping lanes over to the New York Syndicate by next month.”

The table fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Several elder bosses leaned forward, squinting at the financial data. The evidence was irrefutable, mathematically airtight, and devastatingly thorough.

“She found what our forensic accountants missed for thirty months,” Roman said quietly, his eyes sweeping across the table. “She didn't just save my empire. She saved all of ours.”

Don Salvatore slowly lowered his gaze, tapping his cane once against the floor in a gesture of absolute surrender.

“The girl stays,” Salvatore rasped. “And the Vescari name is erased from the city records before sunrise.”