“You think I’m letting you walk into a meat grinder alone? I’m your paralegal, remember? And paralegals stick with their lawyers. Even when those lawyers are too hot-headed to realize they need backup.” Tessana stared at Bruno, the gold-plated shotgun now fully loaded, its weighty gleam reflecting the sparse light of the penthouse infirmary. Her initial flash of annoyance, a familiar surge of pure Volanti temper, faltered. He wasn't challenging her authority; he was asserting his loyalty, his unwavering belief in their partnership. It was a mirror of her own fierce protectiveness, a quality she’d only just acknowledged in herself regarding Renzo. She looked back at Renzo, still pale but breathing steadily on the bed, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. The sedative held him, keeping him safe. Keeping him out of this. That, at least, was a small victory. Her gaze returned to Bruno, a slight, almost imperceptible softening around her eyes. “Fine,” she clipped, the word sharp but laced with a grudging acceptance. “But if you slow me down, I’ll personally break your thumbs.” Bruno’s massive frame seemed to lighten. A genuine smile, surprisingly gentle, stretched across his face. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Boss. Just point me at the problem.” The journey to the old Volanti shipyard was a blur of speed and controlled tension. Tessana changed into a tailored charcoal suit, its cut as sharp and precise as her legal mind. Bruno, with the gilded 12-gauge slung across his back, still managed to look like a man ready for a black-tie gala, albeit one involving heavy weaponry. The city of Porto Leonis unfurled beneath them in geometric grids of neon and shadow, its pulse driven by illicit harbor trades and dockside bloodlettings. The Cortessa faction's designated meeting point was at the far end of the dilapidated shipyard, a vast, echoing cavern of rusted metal and broken cargo containers. The air hung thick with the briny scent of the sea and the faint, metallic tang of disuse. A single, powerful work lamp illuminated a makeshift clearing, casting long, distorted shadows. Bastian Cortessa stood under the harsh light, his posture a carefully constructed image of confidence, hands clasped behind his back. Livia Sordelli hovered beside him, her usual clinging demeanor replaced by a nervous, almost frantic fidgeting. A handful of Cortessa guards, visibly tense, flanked them. Bastian’s eyes, alight with arrogant expectation, scanned the dark beyond the lamp's perimeter, searching for the mythic ‘Ghost Attorney’. A slight smile, cold and knowing, touched Tessana’s lips. This was the moment. The culmination of years of meticulously laid plans, of silent suffering, of rebirth. She stepped into the spotlight’s glare, Bruno a towering, formidable shadow at her side. The mirrored receiver caught the glare, an unmistakable declaration. Bastian’s head snapped towards them, his eyes narrowing, recognition dawning slow and agonizingly. His carefully cultivated composure began to fray at the edges, like cheap fabric under immense strain. He blinked, once, twice, as if trying to clear a trick of the light. “Tessana?” he finally managed, the name a choked whisper, laced with incredulity and a rapidly blossoming horror. “What in the hell are you doing here? Where is the Ghost Attorney?” Tessana halted a few paces from him, her posture impeccable, radiating an icy authority that made his own look like a child’s imitation. “Looking at her, Bastian,” she said, her voice a low, silken caress that promised only ruin. “You called for a consultation, didn’t you? I answered.” The color drained from Bastian’s face, leaving behind a pasty, unhealthy pallor. His chin trembled as the realization broke over him. His docile, discarded wife. The woman he had cast aside without a second thought. She was the ghost. She was the legend. She was the one systematically dismantling his entire life. “No,” he breathed, the sound torn from his throat, a raw, primal denial. “No, you can’t be. You’re… you’re just Tessana. My wife. My *ex*-wife.” He stumbled over the words, pupils dilated with sudden, helpless agony. Livia, her face contorted in a mask of pure, unhinged fury, lunged forward. “You ruined everything!” she shrieked, her voice echoing wildly through the cavernous space. From somewhere in the folds of her expensive coat, she produced a small, chrome snub-nose, bringing it up with a shaking hand, aiming directly at Tessana. Bruno moved with a speed that belied his size. Without a word, he reached into his inner jacket pocket, not for a gun, but for something wrapped in a napkin. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he hurled the object. It sailed through the air, a hard, dense projectile, finding its mark with an audible *thwack* against Livia’s temple. She cried out, a strangled gasp, her eyes rolling back as her legs buckled. The silver pistol clattered to the concrete as she crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Beside her, now visible, lay a rock-hard, stale baguette, unmistakably the weapon of choice. Bastian didn’t even glance at Livia. His gaze remained fixed on Tessana, a trapped, cornered animal in her controlled presence. He looked utterly broken, his arrogance stripped away, leaving only a hollow shell of a man. Tessana stepped forward, the soft click of her heels the only sound in the sudden quiet. She produced a single, crisp document from her briefcase, its pages bound in a stark black folder. She held it out to him, not extending it completely, but making him reach for it, a final act of submission. “Sign this, Bastian,” she commanded, her voice devoid of emotion, “and your empire, along with the identities of your illustrious Council, becomes mine. You’ll walk away with nothing but your life, and the ignominy of being the man who lost everything to the woman he scorned. Refuse, and you face total annihilation. Not just financially, but… personally.” Her gaze was an abyss, promising horrors beyond his comprehension. His hand trembled as he took the folder, his eyes scanning the dense legal text, each word a nail in his coffin. He looked up, his face a grotesque mask of despair, his mouth opening to speak, to beg, to protest. But before a sound could escape, the cavern was plunged into darkness. The single spotlight died, replaced by the ominous *click-clack* of assault rifle safeties disengaging, emanating from every shadow. The air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and impending violence. “No one,” a cold, familiar voice echoed from the gloom, tinged with a predatory amusement, “is leaving alive.” The beam of a tactical flashlight cut through the black, illuminating a figure stepping forward. Adrian Mercara, Renzo’s estranged cousin, a man whose smile had always hidden a viper’s venom, stood flanked by a dozen heavily armed executioners, their faces grim, their weapons ready.

The Consultation