Rain hammered the windows of Chicago’s most expensive hotel the night I found the wife I thought had abandoned me. She stood beneath the chandeliers in a faded housekeeping uniform, one hand gripping a spray bottle and the other resting over a very pregnant belly—and when I whispered her name, she looked straight through me and said, “Good evening, sir. Do you need fresh towels?”

When the heavy steel doors groaned open and I walked into the room, the low murmur of conversation instantly died.

I didn't come alone.

Leo flanked my right side, carrying a heavy leather briefcase, while two senior enforcers walked behind us. I wore my black tailored three-piece suit, my posture rigid, my expression like carved granite.

At the head of the table sat my mother’s closest ally, old Salvatore Moretti—my great-uncle, who had controlled the dockworkers' union for forty years—flanked by Vincent Vance and three senior capos who had served under my father.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Salvatore drawled, swirling amber whiskey in a heavy crystal tumbler. “We were beginning to think domestic bliss had turned our young boss into a house-husband.”

I didn't take a seat. I walked right up to the center of the table, resting both hands on the polished wood, leaning forward until my shadow fell across Salvatore’s face.

“Save the dramatics, Uncle,” I said, my voice cutting through the humid air of the warehouse. “I know why this emergency session was called. My mother whispered in your ear that I’m compromised. That a man with a pregnant wife is a man with a weakness.”

Salvatore didn't blink. He took a slow sip of his whiskey. “And is she wrong, Ethan? You spent seven months chasing shadows like a heartbroken schoolboy instead of minding the port authorities. Now you bring an outsider back into the fold—a girl from the slums who knows all our financial holdings, all our safehouses. You’ve put the entire organization at risk for a domestic entanglement.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the capos seated along the table. Vincent Vance grinned from the corner, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of the mighty Moretti family tearing itself apart from the inside.

“You talk about risk, Uncle?” I straightened up, signaling to Leo.

Leo stepped forward and dropped the heavy leather briefcase onto the center of the oak table with a deafening thud. He popped the brass latches and flipped the lid open, revealing stacks of manila folders, financial printouts, and bank ledgers.

“What’s this?” Salvatore frowned, leaning back.

“That,” I said softly, “is a complete audit of every offshore account, every smuggled shipment, and every kickback scheme run through the western suburbs over the past five years. Specifically, the accounts managed by Salvatore Moretti and co-signed by Vivian Moretti.”

The color drained entirely from my great-uncle’s face. The glass in his hand trembled, spilling a drop of amber liquid onto his pristine white shirt cuff.

“You... you hacked my private books?” Salvatore choked out, half-rising from his chair.

“You thought because I was looking for my wife, I stopped watching my back?” I let out a cold, humorless laugh. “While you and my mother were planning a palace coup, I had my forensic accountants trace every dollar siphoned away from the syndicate shipping lanes. You weren't just plotting against my leadership, Uncle. You were selling our routes to Vincent Vance’s Outfit behind my back.”

Vincent’s smile vanished instantly. He surged to his feet, slamming his palms on the table. “That’s a lie! He’s fabricating evidence to hold onto his throne!”

“Sit down, Vincent, before I have my men put you down right here on the concrete,” I roared, the sheer violence in my voice stopping him dead in his tracks.

I looked around the table, locking eyes with every caporegime, every captain, every heavy hitter in the room.

“My wife is carrying my child,” I announced, every word ringing with absolute, terrifying authority. “She is a Moretti by blood and by law. Anyone who touches her, anyone who threatens her, and anyone who plots against my household answers directly to me—family or no family.”

I leaned down, staring straight into Salvatore’s terrified eyes.

“You want my crown, Uncle? Come and take it. But if you try to stab me in the back while I’m protecting my home, I won’t just strip your title. I’ll make sure your name is erased from the history of this city.”

Silence hung in the warehouse, thick enough to choke on. Not a single man at that table moved. Not a single capo raised a hand to defend Salvatore. They knew power when they saw it, and they knew the throne belonged to the wolf who still had his teeth.