Vincent stood in the center of the room, adjusting his cuffs with effortless composure. On the floor, Marcus was breathing heavily, his hands bound with zip-ties retrieved from the intruders’ own tactical bags.

Elena stood nearby, securing her pistol back into her holster. She looked at Vincent, waiting for his command, her demeanor entirely professional.

Vincent walked slowly over to the grand window, looking out over the expansive estate. The security lights swept across the manicured lawns just as they always did, completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded inside. He turned back to face his nephew, his eyes reflecting a cold, absolute resolve.

“You thought I was predictable, Marcus,” Vincent said quietly, his voice echoing in the grand room. “You thought age had made me soft. But you forgot the most basic rule of this family.”

He stepped closer, leaning down until his face was inches from his nephew’s trembling form.

“The city belongs to those who see everything, hear everything, and act without hesitation.”

Vincent turned his head toward Elena, acknowledging her with a slow, respectful nod—a silent gesture of absolute trust between two survivors.

“Call my personal detail,” Vincent instructed her smoothly. “Tell them we have a meeting to arrange with the Moretti family. It’s time to remind this city who actually runs it.”