As one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses, I had cameras covering every corner of my 27-room mansion because eleven caregivers had already disappointed me, and I refused to let a twelfth fail my paralyzed triplet sons. I expected those cameras to expose Angela Bailey’s mistakes, but instead they caught her secretly doing what America’s best specialists had called pointless, and then one of my boys moved his leg on his own.

The rain was coming down in thick, gray sheets over the Industrial Canal on Chicago’s South Side.

Inside Shipping Warehouse 14, the air reeked of diesel fuel, wet concrete, and metallic rust. Three black SUVs were parked in a semi-circle, their headlights cutting through the murky gloom, illuminating a group of twelve armed men standing beside a line of freight crates.

At the center stood Anthony Moretti—a mid-fortyish syndicate boss with slicked-back hair, a tailored Italian coat, and a reputation for chaotic, brutal violence.

I walked out from the shadow of my lead SUV, surrounded by Frank Rossi and six of my most trusted enforcers. I wasn't wearing a coat. The rain soaked through my dark shirt, sticking it to my chest, but I didn't feel the cold.

"Andrew!" Anthony called out, a wide, yellow-toothed grin spreading across his face as he spread his arms wide. "Look at you! Coming out into the rain like a common street soldier! I thought you spent all your time up in that Gold Coast palace of yours, watching nanny cams!"

My men shifted, hands reaching beneath their leather jackets, but I raised my left hand, holding them in place.

"You put two of my men in the hospital, Anthony," I said, my voice cutting through the heavy patter of the rain like a razor blade. "That violates the 2021 Peace Accord."

"Accords change, Andrew," Anthony spat, taking a step forward and tossing a glowing cigar butt onto the wet concrete. "Your father built this city on blood and iron. But you? You've gotten soft. You spend twenty million dollars a year on doctors and nurses for three crippled kids who can't even say your name."

The temperature in the warehouse seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

Frank Rossi took a half-step forward, his hand clearing his holster, but I caught his forearm, holding him back. My face didn't change. My heart didn't accelerate. A terrifying, icy stillness took hold of my mind.

"Leave the boys out of this, Anthony," I said softly.

"Why should I?" Anthony sneered, stepping closer, his lieutenants fanning out behind him. "Everyone in this city knows it, Andrew! You're distracted! You're spending your empire's money trying to fix broken glass! The Moretti family isn't going to stand by while a grieving father lets the shipping lines rot. We want forty percent of the northern docks, or we start taking your turf block by block."

I looked at Anthony. I looked at the twelve men behind him. I saw greedy, ambitious men who smelled blood in the water because they mistook my domestic isolation for weakness. They thought that because I was mourning my wife and protecting my sons, the monster that had built the Grant Syndicate had died.

They were wrong.

"You came to this meeting thinking you were holding the cards, Anthony," I said, taking two slow steps toward him. "You thought that because I built a hospital in my home, I forgot how to build graves."

Before Anthony could react, I reached inside my waistband, pulled a silenced custom Kimber .45, and fired two rounds straight through the kneecaps of his lead lieutenant standing to his right.

The gunshots sounded like low, muffled coughs.

The lieutenant screamed, collapsing hard onto the concrete.

Chaos erupted. Guns were drawn on both sides, the metallic clicks echoing wildly off the high steel rafters.

"Don't move!" Frank Rossi bellowed, his heavy weapon aimed directly at Anthony’s forehead. My six enforcers had their weapons raised, their tactical training instantly creating an inescapable kill-zone around the Moretti leadership.

Anthony stood frozen, his eyes wide with sudden, terrifying realization. Blood pooled around his lieutenant's legs on the wet floor.

I stepped right up to Anthony, pressing the warm barrel of my silenced pistol directly against the side of his neck, right over his carotid artery.

"Here is the new accord, Anthony," I whispered into his ear, my breath calm and steady. "You will pay for the medical bills of my two drivers. You will transfer five percent of your southern logistics revenue to my holding company by midnight tonight. And if you ever mention my sons again... I will not call a meeting. I will come to your house while you eat dinner with your family, and I will erase your name from this city."

Anthony swallowed hard, sweat mixing with the rain on his face. "Understood... understood, Andrew."

"Get out of my warehouse," I said smoothly, stepping back and holstering my weapon.

As the Moretti crew scrambled to drag their bleeding lieutenant into their vehicles and sped away into the stormy afternoon, Frank walked up beside me, handing me a clean hand towel.

"That was dangerous, Andrew," Frank muttered, wiping his brow. "Moretti has backing from New York. This war isn't over."

"It's not a war, Frank," I said, wiping the rainwater from my face as I walked back toward my SUV. "It's a distraction. Let's get back to the estate."