Just before the bellhop at the St. Regis could reach for the polished brass doors, Roman Castile stepped through the glass threshold and entirely forgot how to draw breath.

While Juliet and the children remained safe in the Catskills, Roman flew back to New York City under the cover of darkness.

The basement of the Castile syndicate’s warehouse was damp and reeked of copper. Silas was chained to a steel chair under a single, harsh lightbulb. He looked completely broken, bruised and battered from Viktor’s initial interrogations.

Roman walked into the room, wearing his black trench coat. He pulled up a wooden chair and sat directly in front of the traitor.

"You tried to kill my children, Silas," Roman said, his voice terrifyingly conversational.

Silas coughed up blood, laughing weakly. "I tried to kill a weakness. The moment you married that girl, you lost your edge, Roman. The families were circling. I had to protect the empire!"

"The empire is mine," Roman corrected softly. "Not yours. Who else was in on the hit?"

"Do your worst, Roman. I'm already dead," Silas spat.

Roman nodded slowly. He didn't yell. He didn't pull a weapon. He simply pulled out a high-resolution photograph and slid it across the concrete floor.

It was a picture of a young man, a college student, walking across a campus in Boston.

Silas’s eyes widened in sheer panic. "No. No, leave him out of this! My son doesn't know anything!"

"Your son is walking home to his dorm right now," Roman said smoothly. "Viktor has a sniper rifle trained on his head from a rooftop two blocks away. You have five seconds to give me the names of every captain who backed your play. If you don't, your bloodline ends before you do."

"Five."

"Roman, please!"

"Four."

"It was the Falcone brothers! And Rossi! That's it, I swear to God!" Silas screamed, sobbing uncontrollably.

Roman stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "Thank you, Silas."

"You promised my son would live!"