The lake breeze shifted, blowing cool and damp across the stone terrace, carrying the first faint scent of approaching autumn.

Alessandro did not burn the letter.

He slowly folded the vellum, slid it back into the leather portfolio, and handed it to Dante.

“Boss?” Dante asked, his scarred hand hovering near his hip. “Do we contact the Commission in New York? Do we ask for a sit-down with the Five Families before the Italian ships dock?”

Alessandro looked out over the sweeping lawns.

Down by the water, Amara had stopped running. She had picked up a yellow dandelion, holding it out proudly to her mother, who smiled and pinned it into her hair.

The innocence of the scene was an island of pure light surrounded by an ocean of incoming darkness.

“No,” Alessandro said softly, his voice dropping into that deep, terrifying resonance that had once made federal judges tremble. “The Commission deals in compromises, Dante. They would tell us to surrender the ports to Milan to avoid a war on American soil.”

“And what do we do?” Dante asked.

Alessandro turned his dark eyes toward his lieutenant.

In their depths burned no fear, no hesitation—only the ancient, unyielding resolve of a king who had built his kingdom on bedrock and was prepared to drown anyone who attempted to breach its gates.

“We double the perimeter around the carriage house,” Alessandro commanded, his voice cold as iron. “We arm every patrol boat between Navy Pier and Calumet Harbor. And we send a message back to Florence with their courier.”

Dante’s eyes flared with grim anticipation. “What message, Boss?”

Alessandro looked toward the horizon, where the gray waters of Lake Michigan stretched out toward the open world, waiting for the storm that was already gathering in the east.

A slow, lethal smile curved the corners of his lips.

“Tell Don Lorenzo,” Alessandro whispered, “that if he wants his daughter back… he had better bring more men than he can afford to lose.”