BLOODLINES BORN IN SHADOW: A PATRIARCH RECLAIMS HIS OWN

Ten miles out in the stormy waters of Long Island Sound, the hundred-and-fifty-foot luxury vessel The Chimera cut through six-foot swells. Inside the high-tech command deck, bathed in soft red combat lighting, technicians monitored digital telemetry feeds tracking Sal’s Sikorsky helicopter through the upstate storm.

Standing behind the operators was the real Victor Cole, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch resting loosely in his scarred hand.

""Target altitude holding at eight thousand feet,"" a technician reported. ""Radar lock is solid. We have missile authorization code pending.""

Victor smirked, taking a sip. ""Let Salvatore sweat for another two minutes. When a patriarch realizes he is helpless, he becomes compliant. He will hand over Newark before sunrise.""

Suddenly, the radar alarm sounded a high-pitched, warbling siren.

""Sir! Inbound high-speed surface signature!"" the radar operator yelled, leaning frantically over his console. ""Speed: Mach 3. Distance: twelve miles and closing fast!""

Victor’s smirk vanished, the glass freezing halfway to his lips. ""What is that? A coast guard interceptor?""

""Negative! That's not Coast Guard! That's an AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missile! Sub-surface launch from an unlisted vessel!""

""Deploy countermeasures! Deploy the chaff!"" Victor screamed, throwing his drink against the bulkhead.

""Countermeasures failing! It's too close—it’s—""

Through the panoramic reinforced windows of the bridge, a blazing spear of fire emerged from the midnight clouds. The Harpoon missile struck the forward hull of The Chimera with cataclysmic force.

A wall of white-hot fire vaporized the command suite, tearing the yacht’s steel frame in two like a tin can. The concussive blast echoed across the dark water, sending a pillar of black smoke into the rainy sky as the luxury vessel began its rapid descent into the Atlantic depths.

Back in the subway tunnel, Sal’s phone vibrated once.

A single text appeared: Target neutralized. Debris sinking.

Sal put the phone away and looked at Julian, who was trembling on the tracks, staring at his dead tablet.

""The board's yacht is at the bottom of the ocean,"" Sal announced flatly. ""Your safety net is gone.""

Julian’s face drained of what little color remained. He fell to his knees in the filth, clasping his hands together like a penitent monk. ""Sal... please. I was manipulated. I’m your daughter's husband! I’m Leo's father!""