Two months had passed since the downfall of Marcus Vance and Doctor Keller. New York had settled into a rare, quiet rhythm under Salvatore rule. The docks operated with machine-like efficiency, the unions were peaceful, and the Commission worked in total harmony.

The hard-won peace of the winter was broken on a cold Thursday morning, not by the sound of gunfire or the arrival of a hostile Capo, but by the sharp, rhythmic chime of an encrypted satellite phone.

Outside our Manhattan penthouse, a gray, freezing sleet fell over

The cathedral of St. Jude Basilica was quiet on Saturday morning, filled only with the soft, sacred light filtering through the ancient stained-glass windows.

The air inside the vast stone sanctuary was cool, carrying the familiar, comforting scent of aged cedar, m