Mister, put your dog in timeout!” Three-year-old Lucy Bennett marched into the private meeting of the most feared man in Chicago with one hand on her hip and the other gripping what

Pier 42 was a rotting graveyard of rusted shipping containers, stagnant diesel fumes, and the oily lap of Lake Michigan against creaking timber pilings. The cold November rain was coming down in sharp, freezing needles, slickening the asphalt as Vincent’s armored black Suburban rolled into the shadows beneath an abandoned crane.

Frank cut the engine. The only sound was the rhythmic thumping of the wipers and the howling lake wind.

"Back door is clear," Frank reported, checking his mirror. "Viktor is inside the warehouse office. Two guards at the door, low-level muscle. Nothing we can't handle in five seconds."

"Nobody dies unless I give the word," Vincent commanded, checking the magazine of his sidearm before sliding it back into his shoulder holster. "I need Viktor talking, not bleeding out."

They moved through the rain like phantoms. The two guards stationed at the warehouse side door didn't even hear the footsteps over the roaring wind. Before either man could reach for their waistband, Frank hit the first guard with a brutal throat punch, while Vincent grabbed the second man by the collar, slamming his head against the corrugated steel wall with sickening force. Both guards slumped into the wet gravel, unconscious.

Vincent kicked the office door open.

Inside, the room was warm, smelling of stale coffee, tobacco smoke, and damp receipts. Sitting behind a battered metal desk was Viktor Vance—a heavy-set, gray-haired man in his late fifties, his face mapped with deep wrinkles and broken capillaries.

Viktor froze, a half-burned cigarette trembling between his fingers. When he saw Vincent Calder standing in the doorway, the blood drained from his face until he looked as gray as the concrete beneath his feet.

"Vincent," Viktor choked out, raising his hands slowly. "I don't have a piece. I swear to God, I’m unarmed."

Vincent didn't draw his gun. He walked slowly across the linoleum floor, every step deliberate and heavy, until he stopped right in front of the desk. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and placed the double-headed serpent ring onto the paperwork in front of the old man.

Viktor stared at the ring as if it were a venomous snake ready to strike. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple.

"He told me you'd come for me," Viktor whispered.

Vincent leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk, looming over the older man. "Then he told you the truth. Where is he, Viktor?"

"I don't know, Vincent! I swear on my mother’s soul, I don't know where he’s bunkered!" Viktor’s voice cracked with raw panic. "He contacted me through a secure drop three weeks ago. Said he was back in Chicago. Said he was taking back what was stolen from him."

"Julian lost his right to this city the day he sold out our operations to the cartel," Vincent snarled, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence. "He survived two rounds to the chest and a forty-foot plunge into freezing water. God gave him a second chance at life, Viktor. And he’s wasting it by sending trinkets to my daughter."

At the mention of Lucy, Vincent reached out with lightning speed, grabbing Viktor by the throat and hauling the two-hundred-pound man halfway across the desk, scattering papers and pens.

"Listen to me carefully, old man," Vincent hissed, his dark eyes inches from Viktor’s terrified face. "You have twenty-four hours to set a meeting. If Julian doesn't show, I won't just put him in the ground. I will dismantle everything that carries the Vance name in this hemisphere. Every warehouse, every account, every single relative who shares your blood. Do you understand me?"

Viktor clawed at Vincent’s grip, gasping for air. "He... he won't meet you! He said... he said you're soft now. Said the girl made you weak!"

Vincent slammed Viktor back into his chair with enough force to shatter the casters. The old man gasped, clutching his bruised throat.

"Tell him to test that theory," Vincent said coldly.

He turned toward the door, nodding to Frank. But just as his hand touched the doorknob, Frank’s tactical radio crackled with static, followed by Mason’s urgent, strained voice breaking through the frequency:

*“Boss! We have a situation at the estate. Perimeter sensor on the west wall tripped. Then offline. They didn't breach the gate—they're inside the grounds!”*

Vincent’s heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer. He ripped the radio from Frank’s chest. "Mason! Report! Where are Nora and Lucy?"

*“Safe room is locked down, but the power just cut to the main house! Bishop is going crazy in the courtyard—we’re under fire!”*