The basement of the Ridgewood warehouse did not smell of old bricks and damp timber as the older properties in Queens usually did; it smelled of bleach, cold concrete, and fresh iron

The sun had fully cleared the horizon by the time the state police sirens were heard wailing in the distance—not the local cops who took envelopes on Tuesdays, but the federal task force out of Newark that Lorenzo had contacted using an encrypted satellite phone three hours before the ambush at Ridgewood.

In the grand foyer upstairs, the morning light poured through the tall arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Vincent sat in a leather armchair in Lorenzo’s third-floor study, a white gauze bandage wrapped tightly around his ribs, a steaming cup of black espresso sitting untouched on the mahogany desk beside him. His left leg was stretched out in front of him, resting on a velvet footstool.

The heavy wooden box containing the steel pocket watch—Tempo è tutto—sat open on the blotter between them.

Lorenzo stood by the window, looking down at the courtyard where the dry stone fountain was finally catching the golden morning light. He had his black leather gloves back on, buttoned tight at the wrists, the leather smooth and seamless once more.

"The federal marshals are taking Marco's assets by noon," Lorenzo said without turning around. "Your name isn't on the transfer papers, Vincent. The ledger you gave Sophia cleared your accounts of any direct participation in the port smuggling."

Vincent looked down at his hands—hands that had carried coffee, held guns, and signed death warrants for over two decades. "I don't deserve a clean slate, boss. I helped cover up Tomas's death. I let a good man fall for a crime I should have stopped."

"No," Lorenzo said quietly, turning from the window to face him. "You didn't stop it then. But you stayed in the house. You watched over the estate. And last night, when you had a chance to run to Zurich with millions in your pocket, you stayed down in that archive trying to get the proof to finish it."

Lorenzo reached down, picked up the steel pocket watch from the velvet lining, and tossed it across the desk.

Vincent caught it instinctively, his thumb brushing the scratched face at the twelve. "What's this for?"

"It’s time to start over, Vincent," Lorenzo said simply. "There’s a shipping agency in Palermo that needs a new director. One who doesn't wear a gold lion's-head pin anymore. Your flight leaves for Italy tonight."

Vincent stared at the watch for a long moment, then slowly slipped it into his breast pocket, right beneath the cartoon dinosaur band-aid that still clung stubbornly to his shirt. He stood up, wincing slightly as his weight hit his mended leg, and gave a sharp, respectful nod.