It wasn't a subtle movement; it was the practiced, instantaneous shift of a predator whose territory had been crossed. The heavy brass candelabra remained standing, but his right hand dropped naturally to his side, hovering two inches above the Sig Nexter tucked into the small of his back beneath his jacket.

"Stay behind the table," he said to Elena.

She didn't move. She was already on her feet, her hands flat on the linen, her eyes fixed on the frosted glass of the front doors.

The latch gave way with a splintering crack.

A man stumbled into the foyer. He was middle-aged, wearing a grease-stained canvas jacket that smelled strongly of diesel and cheap rye. His nose was crooked—recently broken—and his left hand was wrapped in a dirty blue rag that was soaked dark with fresh blood.

"Elena!" the man shouted, his voice bouncing off the high tin ceiling. "Where's the kid? Where’s the grease-monkey brother of yours?"

Adrien stepped out from the private dining alcove into the main room, his shadow falling long and dark across the empty tables.

The man stopped. He blinked twice, trying to focus through the dim amber light and whatever was clouding his bloodstream, then recognized the cut of Adrien’s suit. His eyes flickered down to the hand hovering near the small of Adrien’s back.

"Oh," the man whispered, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Oh, shit. You’re... you’re the one from the hill."

"Vinnie," Elena said, stepping out from behind Adrien. Her voice was colder than the river outside. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do nothing!" Vinnie held up his bloody hand, the blue rag slipping to reveal a deep, jagged gash across the palm. "The boys from the 12th Ward—they came by the garage. They said the protection fee doubled as of midnight. They said if Tony doesn't clear out by sunrise, they’re taking the tow trucks."

"Tony’s shop is four blocks from here," Elena said, her nails digging into the edge of the table. "He’s my brother. He pays his dues."

"Not to the 12th," Vinnie spat, wiping his nose with his uninjured shoulder. "Not since the old man died. They’re carving up the south side, Elena. They don't care about family garages. They want the real estate."

Adrien hadn't moved. He stood three paces behind Vinnie, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, his gray eyes fixed on the man’s spine.

"Who sent you?" Adrien asked.

Vinnie didn't turn around. He couldn't. There was something in the tone of Adrien’s voice—a flat, lethal absence of heat—that kept the small-time mechanic pinned to the floorboards.

"It was... it was Rossi's crew," Vinnie muttered. "The grease-balls from Red Hook. They’re working for the new guy. The one from Chicago."

Adrien’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Chicago," he repeated softly.

"Yeah. Some punk named Moretti—no, wait." Vinnie blinked hard. "Not Moretti. Marchetti. They say he bought the dock warehouses last Tuesday. They’re clearing out every independent shop between here and the bridge."

Elena looked at Adrien. The realization moved across her face in slow motion—the connection between the expensive suit, the private dining room at Ferrante’s, and the name that had just dropped like a lead weight onto the floor.

"You," she whispered.

"Not me," Adrien said without looking at her.

"The warehouses," she said, her voice rising, the sugar-dust on her lapel forgotten as she rounded the table. "My brother’s garage is on the corner of 9th and Pier. It’s part of the block your syndicate bought last week."

"I bought it to stabilize the freight lines," Adrien said, his voice hard as iron. "I didn't authorize a turf sweep on domestic garages."

"You own it!" she shouted. On the banquette, Sophie stirred, whimpering softly in her sleep before settling back into the red folds of her dress. Elena lowered her voice, trembling with a fury that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with survival. "You sit here and talk to my children about honesty while your people are throwing my brother through his own front window?"

Adrien took two steps toward her, his face inches from hers. He was taller, broader, smelling of cedar and cold air, but she didn't back down. She stood her ground like a woman who had spent five years defending a bakery from bailiffs and landlords.

"If my people had cleared that block," Adrien said, his voice barely above a whisper, "your brother wouldn't have been able to send Vinnie here to bleed on my tablecloth. He would be at the bottom of the East River."

He turned his head toward the door, where Vinnie was trying to edge backward toward the street.

"Dante," Adrien called out.

The side door near the kitchen clicked open. Dante stepped out of the shadows, wiping his hands on a linen towel, looking less like a matchmaking friend and more like an executioner who had paused to check his watch.

"Boss?"

"Take Vinnie to the basement," Adrien said, not looking back. "Call the captain of the 12th. Tell him if I see another boot from Red Hook on the south side before sunrise, I’m going to stop paying my municipal taxes and start collecting them myself."

"And the brother?" Dante asked, his eyes flicking toward Elena.

"Leave the garage alone," Adrien said. "And send a car to move Tony’s family into the guesthouse on the hill until this is sorted."

Elena stared at him, her chest heaving beneath the red silk. "I don't take charity from men who run syndicates."

"It isn't charity," Adrien said, turning back to face her. "It’s a neighborhood watch. And as for your daughters’ interview..." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small pink notebook Sophie had left on the table. He laid it gently beside her wine glass. "I believe I have a few more questions of my own."