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.

The purge was swift, silent, and absolute.

Over the course of three hours, the Castile syndicate was violently cleansed. The Falcone brothers were found dead in their luxury cars. Rossi disappeared from his yacht and was never seen again.

Roman orchestrated the entire operation from the back of his armored Maybach, watching the city burn out the infection that had plagued his empire for years.

He didn't feel triumph. He only felt a desperate urgency to finish the job so he could go back to the mountains. Back to his family.

By the time the sun began to rise over the East River, the streets were quiet again. The rival factions had been sent a very clear, very bloody message: The King had returned, his focus was absolute, and his family was untouchable.

Roman’s phone buzzed. It was Juliet.

"Are you safe?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's over," Roman said, closing his eyes, letting the exhaustion finally settle into his bones. "The threat is neutralized. No one will ever hunt us again."

"Come home, Roman," she whispered.