A three-year-old girl walked into my secret meeting, stood beside a loaded pistol, and asked if she could “borrow” me for one day. Twelve of New York's most dangerous men expected me to explode—but the only man who smiled was Marco, my most trusted lieutenant, and I should have paid closer attention to the way he looked at her mother.

Jimmy stopped five feet inside the doorway, his eyes sweeping the empty parlor before settling on me standing beside the counter.

“Boss,” Jimmy said, keeping his right hand inside his heavy jacket. “Marco sent me down to make sure you were secure. Said you didn't have your usual escort.”

“Jimmy,” I said, resting my right forearm casually on the marble counter, two inches away from the sugar dispensers. “You’ve been working for me for six years, right?”

Jimmy blinked, surprised by the question. “Yeah, Boss. Six years next month.”

“And in those six years, have you ever seen me leave my back unprotected?”

Jimmy’s jaw tightened slightly. He took one step closer. “Marco said you were distracted today, Boss. Said you were soft on some maid's kid. Said it was time for a change in management at the waterfront.”

“Marco says a lot of things,” I said softly. “Did he tell you what happened to the last guy who tried to change management at the waterfront?”

Jimmy didn't answer. His hand moved inside his coat, starting to draw a suppressed .38 revolver.

CRACK.

The large glass front window of the parlor didn't shatter—it erupted inward in a spiderweb pattern as a single high-velocity rifle round punched through the center glass, striking Jimmy Vane directly in his right shoulder.

The kinetic impact spun him around like a ragdoll. His gun clattered onto the tile floor, rolling across the room until it bumped against my boot.

Jimmy hit his knees, clutching his shoulder, screaming in agony as blood seeped through his fingers.

Out on the street, two dark sedans pulled up behind Jimmy’s black SUV, blocking it completely. Four of my personal counter-surveillance operators stepped out with tactical rifles, surrounding the vehicle before the second man inside could even draw his weapon.

I leaned down, picked up Jimmy’s dropped revolver, cleared the chamber with a quick slide movement, and tossed the weapon onto the marble counter.

“Marco didn't tell you about my second detail, did he, Jimmy?” I asked, looking down at him.

Jimmy gritted his teeth through the pain, shaking his head frantically. “He... he said you were alone! He said you cleared the whole schedule for the girl!”

“I cleared my schedule for the girl,” I corrected gently. “I didn't clear my security for a rat.”

I pulled my phone back out, dialing Marco’s direct line once more.

He answered on the first ring. “Leo? Is it done?”

“Not yet, Marco,” I said smoothly, stepping over Jimmy Vane’s bleeding form as I walked toward the front entrance. “Jimmy’s on the floor in Lombardi’s Sweets. He’s missing a piece of his shoulder, and his driver is currently lying face down on 5th Avenue.”

Silence—absolute, heavy, dead silence—hung over the phone line.

“Leo...” Marco’s voice finally came back, stripped of all its smooth charm, replaced by a raw, desperate edge. “Listen to me—”

“No, Marco,” I cut him off softly. “You listen to me. I have the red ledger. I have Miguel Alvarez’s shipping records. And in twenty minutes, I’m going to be sitting at the head table in the estate library.”

I paused, watching my operators clear the street outside.

“If you’re not there to explain yourself,” I added, “I’ll start selling off your mother’s real estate holdings by sunset.”

I ended the call, turned around, and walked toward the back kitchen doors.

Sophia was sitting on a stainless steel prep table, happily eating a bowl of strawberry ice cream with a plastic spoon, while Maria stood beside her, shaking like a leaf.