The Gulfstream G650 touched down on the private runway at Gary/Chicago International Airport under the cover of a bruised, pre-dawn sky.

No customs agents greeted the private jet; an encrypted diplomatic exemption from Rome kept the tarmac cleared. When the pressurized door hissed open, a tall, impeccably tailored man stepped out into the biting Midwest wind. He carried a silver-tipped cane made of aged olive wood, though his stride was fluid, predatory, and without a limp.

Matteo Bellini—Lorenzo’s firstborn son and Genevieve’s older half-brother.

Waiting on the asphalt was a black Mercedes Maybach, flanked by two armored Escalades. As Matteo slid into the back leather seat, an older man with graying hair handed him an espresso in fine porcelain and a thick dossier labeled Rienzi Holdings.

"How bad is it, Corrado?" Matteo asked in smooth, venomous Italian. His voice had the melodic cadence of Tuscan nobility, but his slate-gray eyes were devoid of warmth.

"The federal court in New York sealed her indictment," Corrado replied, voice shaking slightly. "Danbury Federal Correctional Institution is locked down tight. Wardens won't take our money, and the US Department of Justice has her listed under protective isolation. But the real problem isn't Washington. It's Alessandro Rienzi."

Matteo took a delicate sip of his espresso. "My sister was careless. She listened to Arthur Ashworth, a weak American banker who drank too much Scotch and bled through his fingernails at the first sight of federal badges. But she carries Bellini blood. You do not lock a wolf behind federal bars and expect the pack to stay in the hills."

Matteo opened the dossier. The first photo was of Alessandro Rienzi stepping out of his downtown headquarters. The second was of Fatima Okafor arriving at an upscale philanthropic gala on Michigan Avenue.

And the third was Amara, eating an ice cream cone on the lakeside terrace.

Matteo’s finger tapped the photograph of the little girl. A faint, vicious smirk curled his lips.

"The American press calls him untouchable," Matteo murmured. "They say Alessandro Rienzi has no family left. No wife, no siblings, no heirs. But a fortress always has a side door, Corrado."

"We’ve mobilized forty men through our Montreal pipeline," Corrado whispered. "They’re staging in Cicero by midnight. Do we hit the docks first?"

"No," Matteo said, shutting the file with a crisp, final snap. "We don't attack the walls of a castle while the king sits safely inside. First, we take what makes the king bleed."

Across the city, inside the heavily fortified subterranean security suite beneath the Rienzi manor, Dante threw a pair of high-resolution satellite stills onto the glass conference table.

"Gary Airport, forty-five minutes ago," Dante said, pointing at the profile of Matteo Bellini. "He traveled under a false cultural attaché passport issued by San Marino. Boss, this isn't just an emissary. That's Matteo Bellini. The Camorra calls him Il Mastino—The Bloodhound."

Alessandro leaned over the glowing screens, a cigar burning unsmoked between his fingers. His jaw was set like granite.

"Lorenzo sent his executioner," Alessandro said quietly.

"He brought twenty seasoned operators out of southern Italy," Dante added. "And our sources inside the port authority say three uninspected shipping containers vanished from the Calumet rail terminal two nights ago. Heavy military hardware. Anti-materiel rifles, thermite charges, and tactical jamming gear."

Alessandro looked up at the perimeter cameras displaying the carriage house. Through the morning mist, he could see Fatima walking Amara to the private estate school room set up in the west wing, accompanied by four armed Rienzi operators in civilian clothes.

"He won't hit Pier 14," Alessandro analyzed, his mind calculating every angle with icy detachment. "Pier 14 is crawl-space for federal agents right now. If Matteo starts an open shootout on the docks, Homeland Security rolls in with armored vehicles. He wants leverage."

"The girl?" Dante asked, his voice tightening.

Alessandro turned his dark, bottomless eyes toward his lieutenant.

"Move Fatima and Amara down into the vault under the carriage house. Rotate the outer sentries every forty minutes. And contact our port captain at Navy Pier."

"What are we doing with the port captain?"

Alessandro crushed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray. "We're going to give Matteo Bellini a target he can't resist."