A 6-year-old housekeeper's daughter interrupted a mob boss's 45th birthday party with six terrified words that saved his life: "Mr. Caruso, please don't open that."

Vincent walked down the stone stairs into the basement armory, his dark eyes void of all warmth.

The armory was a reinforced bunker beneath the mansion's garage, lined with gun racks, tactical gear, and encrypted communications monitors.

In the center of the room, chained securely to an iron support pillar, sat Adrian Vale.

His tuxedo jacket was gone, his silver hair messy, blood trickling from a cut on his lip where Dante’s men had rough-housed him.

When the heavy steel door slammed shut, Adrian looked up, a desperate, wild look in his eyes.

"Vince! Vince, listen to me!" Adrian shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Moretti forced my hand! He had leverage on me!"

Vincent walked over to a heavy wooden table, pulling off his velvet tuxedo jacket and tossing it over a chair. He slowly rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

"What leverage, Adrian?" Vincent asked coldly.

"Gambling debts in Vegas!" Adrian stammered, pulling against the iron chains. "Eight million dollars! They were going to kill my son, Vince! I had no choice!"

Vincent stopped. He turned slowly, looking at Adrian with absolute, chilling disgust.

"You had an eight-million-dollar debt," Vincent said, "and instead of coming to the man who gave you everything for thirteen years... you agreed to put a bomb in my home? Where my sister lives? Where my staff lives?"

"Moretti said it would be clean!" Adrian wept. "He said you'd die instantly, I’d take over the family, and the debt would be wiped clear!"

"You're a coward, Adrian," Vincent said softly. "You always were. I just failed to see it."

Dante stepped into the armory, holding an encrypted satellite tablet.

"Boss," Dante reported, "the fire at the 47th Street warehouse is under control, but Moretti’s hit squad took three of our men. Moretti just sent a message to the Commission. He's claiming you tried to assassinate him tonight and that he's taking all our southern distribution routes by force."

"He's trying to strike before the Commission realizes his bomb failed," Vincent analyzed quickly. "He wants to create enough chaos so the other families think I'm weak and distracted."

Vincent looked at Adrian, who was trembling in his chains.

"Dante," Vincent commanded. "Bring Adrian's phone back down here."

Dante handed him the satellite phone.

Vincent dialed Lorenzo Moretti’s private number once again and put it on speaker.

It rang once.

"Adrian?!" Moretti’s voice barked over the line. "What the hell is going on over there?! My men said the mansion is locked down!"

"Lorenzo," Vincent spoke into the phone, his voice as smooth and lethal as polished ice.

Silence fell over the line.

"...Caruso," Moretti rasped after three long seconds.

"You sent a bomb into my home on my birthday," Vincent said. "You involved a six-year-old child. You killed three of my men on 47th Street."

"It's business, Vincent," Moretti sneered over the speaker, trying to sound confident. "You've been soft for years. Chicago needs a real boss. I have half your captains ready to turn on you."

"You have Adrian," Vincent corrected him. "And Adrian is currently sitting in my basement bleeding on my concrete floor."

Moretti went quiet.

"I am giving you one hour, Lorenzo," Vincent said coldly. "Gather your senior lieutenants at your club on Michigan Avenue. I am coming to accept your surrender."

"Surrender?!" Moretti laughed harshly. "I have fifty armed men at the club, Caruso! You step onto Michigan Avenue tonight and you'll be filled with so much lead they'll bury you in a bucket!"