The door to Kyle’s room opened at precisely 9:30 AM. Not Isabeau, but one of the guards—the buzz-cut ex-military type who’d been almost apologetic throughout Kyle’s captivity. "Time to go," the man said simply, gesturing toward the hallway.

Kyle stood, adjusting the tailored suit jacket over his bandaged shoulder. The wound throbbed beneath the expensive fabric, but the pain had dulled to a manageable ache. He followed the guard through corridors he barely remembered from last night’s drugged haze, down a service elevator, and out into a back courtyard bathed in morning sunlight.

Isabeau was nowhere to be seen. Smart. She couldn’t be spotted with him, couldn’t be the one escorting him to this meeting. Any association between them before the accusation would compromise the entire frame-up. If Marcello or the other families suspected she’d coached him, rehearsed this performance, the whole house of cards would collapse. Kyle understood the game now—he was a supposedly independent witness, not her puppet.

The courtyard opened onto a private parking area, and Kyle stopped short. Sitting there, gleaming under the sun like a gift from the gods, was his car. His car, the one he’d driven to Cleopatra’s estate what felt like a lifetime ago. They must have retrieved it, brought it here while he’d been unconscious or... otherwise occupied. The sight of it sent a wave of unexpected comfort through him.

Not that he needed the car, strictly speaking. Kyle was rich enough now that he could decide never to work another day in his life and still have everything he wanted. The rebate system had seen to that—billions stacked in accounts, investments, properties. He could buy ten cars better than this one with a phone call. But this car had sentimental value. It represented the man he’d been before all this mafia insanity, before Cleopatra and Isabeau and bullets in his shoulder. Before he became a pawn in games played by monsters in expensive clothes.

The guards who’d brought the car stood at attention near the vehicle. Unlike Isabeau with her cold calculation, they’d treated him with a baseline of human decency—not kindly, but not cruel either. Just professional. Kyle nodded to them as he approached, offering a small wave of acknowledgment. "Thanks for not being assholes," he said, half-joking.

The buzz-cut guard almost smiled. "Good luck in there. You’ll need it."

Kyle slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather embracing him like an old friend. He adjusted the mirror, checked the wound in his shoulder one more time—still holding, the bandage clean—and started the engine. The GPS was already programmed with coordinates. Of course it was. Nothing was left to chance.

He pulled out of the courtyard and onto the street, merging into late-morning traffic. The coordinates led him out of the city, toward the affluent suburbs where estates sprawled behind high walls and manicured hedges. Kyle’s mind raced as he drove, hands steady on the wheel despite the anxiety gnawing at his gut.

He was about to put an innocent man to death. Well, "innocent" was a stretch—Viktor Sokolov was a stone-cold killer, a butcher who’d tortured and murdered more people than Kyle could probably count. The man deserved to die by any reasonable moral accounting. But he wasn’t guilty of being a mole. That crime was fabricated, built on Isabeau’s lies and a planted gun casing. Kyle would be executing a man for something he didn’t do, even if he’d done a thousand other things worthy of execution.

The moral calculus made Kyle’s head hurt. Was it still murder if the victim was a murderer? Was it justice or just expedience?

But what bothered him more was Viktor’s instability. The man was a psychopath, barely leashed by Marcello’s authority. What would he do when accused of treason in front of the families? Would he rage? Attack? Try to kill Kyle on the spot? There was no telling what this accusation might trigger. Viktor didn’t strike Kyle as someone who’d go quietly, even faced with fabricated evidence.

Still, Kyle could feel it in his bones: the end of this saga was approaching. One way or another, today would determine whether he walked out free or in a body bag. The tension was almost a relief after days of mounting dread.

The drive took just over two hours, traffic thinning as he left urban sprawl behind. The estate appeared suddenly—a massive wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars, security cameras tracking his approach. The gate swung open before he even slowed, as if they’d been expecting him down to the minute.

Kyle drove up a winding driveway lined with ancient oaks, their branches forming a cathedral canopy overhead. The main house loomed at the end: a sprawling mansion that screamed old money and older violence. Men in dark suits stood at intervals along the drive, watching him with the casual alertness of professional killers. Kyle could feel eyes on him from every direction.

He parked in the circular drive and took a deep breath, hands gripping the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. This was it. No turning back now.

Kyle stepped out of the car, immediately raising his hands to shoulder height in a gesture of non-aggression. He wasn’t armed—they’d made sure of that—but the optics mattered. A man approached, older, silver-haired, dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. He bowed slightly, a gesture of surprising respect.

"Mr. Kyle. You are expected. You are a guest here. Please, follow me."

Guest. The word was deliberately chosen. Not prisoner, not witness, not pawn. Guest. Kyle lowered his hands and nodded. "Lead the way."

They entered through massive double doors into a foyer that belonged in a museum: marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that was probably worth more than most people’s houses. But Kyle barely registered the opulence. His focus narrowed as they walked deeper into the mansion, down a hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced men from eras past.

The guide stopped before an ornate wooden door, knocked twice, and pushed it open.

The room beyond was the most intimidating space Kyle had ever entered.

It was a conference room, but styled like something from a Renaissance palazzo—dark wood paneling, a massive table that could seat twenty, oil paintings of battles and conquests covering the walls. And around that table sat the heads of the Five Families, each radiating power and menace in their own distinct way.

Viktor Sokolov dominated one end, his hulking 6’8" frame making the chair beneath him look like doll furniture. His bald head gleamed under the chandelier light, tattoos visible on his neck, metal teeth catching the light when he shifted. He was staring at Kyle with undisguised curiosity and barely-contained violence.

Lucius Moretti sat to Viktor’s right, fedora resting on the table before him, eyes sharp and calculating.

Isabeau Delacroix was positioned midway down, her expression perfectly neutral, not a flicker of recognition or acknowledgment. She wore a different suit today—navy blue, severe, all business.

The O’Rourke head, scarred face impassive, nursed what looked like whiskey despite the early hour.

And at the head of the table sat Marcello Vescari himself.

The Don’s presence was magnetic. He wore a charcoal suit similar to Kyle’s own, his dark hair slicked back, face unreadable. His eyes—cold, penetrating—locked onto Kyle the moment he entered. For a long, terrible moment, that gaze was hard as granite, assessing, judging.

Then, almost imperceptibly, it softened. Just a fraction. Marcello’s expression shifted from potential executioner to... something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Or respect for someone willing to walk into this room knowing what awaited.

Kyle’s heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to channel someone else. Someone who could stand in a room full of killers and own it. He reached into his vast library of absorbed knowledge and personalities, searching for the right mask to wear.

Michael Corleone. The Godfather. Quiet, controlled, strategic. The man who never showed fear, never flinched, who calculated three moves ahead while appearing to barely move at all.

Kyle straightened his spine, let his face go neutral, and walked to the empty chair positioned between Isabeau and Lucius. He didn’t hurry. Didn’t hesitate. He moved like he belonged here, like this was just another Tuesday.

He sat, folded his hands on the table, and met Marcello’s eyes without flinching.

The room held its breath.

Marcello’s lips curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile. Then he leaned forward, his voice a low rumble that filled the space.

"Let the meeting begin."