The gunshot came less than three seconds after Vincent Rourke told his wife not to stand so close to him.

At 2:15 PM, the grand conservatory of the Vane Estate in Greenwich was filled with twelve of the most powerful crime bosses in the tri-state area.

Dominic Vane—a tall, silver-haired man of fifty-five in an expensive Italian suit—stood at the head of the long marble table, holding a glass of scotch.

“It is a tragedy,” Vane announced, putting on a somber face for the gathered men. “Vincent Rourke’s young wife was struck down last night. Vincent himself has gone mad with grief, abandoning his posts, throwing the city into chaos. As senior member of the council, I propose we freeze Rourke’s assets until he proves fit to lead—”

The heavy oak doors of the conservatory were suddenly blown off their hinges with a deafening CRACK.

Wood splinters rained over the marble floor.

Vane’s guards drew their weapons, but before they could fire, six Rourke enforcers flooded the room, taking tactical positions with suppressed submachine guns.

Through the smoke stepped Vincent Rourke.

He looked pristine. Impeccable. He wore a tailored black three-piece suit, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, his posture relaxed as if he were walking into a Sunday brunch.

Behind him walked Gabriel, carrying a portable projector setup.

“Am I late for the vote, Dominic?” Vincent asked, his voice smooth as silk as he walked down the center of the room.

Vane’s face went completely pale. “Vincent... you’re alive. We heard... the shooter...”

“The shooter missed,” Vincent said, stopping five feet from Vane. “Or rather, my wife took the bullet for me. And then she gave me a very interesting gift before she went to sleep.”

Vincent signaled Gabriel.

The projector clicked on. Across the white marble wall of the conservatory, giant financial spreadsheets, encrypted wire transfers, and satellite imagery of illicit weapon crates appeared in high definition.

The gathered council bosses gasped, leaning forward to inspect the documents.

“This is absurd!” Vane shouted, his voice cracking. “Fabricated lies!”

Then, a clear, crisp audio file played through the room’s sound system.

“Make it look like a heart attack,” Vane’s voice echoed clearly from the speakers, recorded four years ago. “Arthur Bennett knows too much about the harbor shipments. Administer the paralytic and shred his files.”

Silence descended on the conservatory. The other council members looked at Vane with cold, disgusted realization. In the syndicate, killing another man’s family and stealing from partners were cardinal sins punished by death.

“You broke the code, Dominic,” old man Moretti said from the end of the table, standing up and buttoning his coat. “You brought federal heat onto all of us.”

Vane realized he was cornered. Panic took over.

He lunged for the weapon hidden beneath his jacket, aiming for Vincent’s face.

Vincent didn't even blink.

In one fluid, blindingly fast motion, Vincent drew a custom silver 1911 pistol from his shoulder holster and fired twice.

THWIP. THWIP.

The double-tap shattered Vane’s kneecaps. Vane collapsed onto the marble floor, screaming in agony, his gun sliding away across the polished stone.

Vincent stepped forward, placing the polished leather boot of his shoe directly onto Vane’s chest, pinning him to the floor.

He leaned down, his gray eyes devoid of any human warmth.

“That was for Arthur Bennett,” Vincent whispered.

He adjusted the barrel of the gun, pointing it directly between Vane’s eyes.