Rain hammered the windows of my estate that night, but inside the West Wing, no one dared make a sound.

The rain on the south side of Chicago tasted like iron and smoke.

Warehouse 44 was an abandoned industrial relic near the mouth of the Calumet River. Rusted cranes hung over the black water like giant skeletal fingers, and the wind off Lake Michigan howled through the cracked corrugated metal walls.

Inside, twelve men were barricaded behind wooden crates and shipping containers.

Marcus Vance was pacing the concrete floor, snorting lines of white powder off the hood of a stolen Dodge Charger. He was a wiry, tattooed maniac with dead eyes and the twitching paranoia of a trapped rat.

"Where is Dominic?" Vance screamed, kicking an empty oil drum. "He was supposed to call an hour ago! The hit should have been done by midnight!"

"Phones are dead, boss," one of his men said nervously. "Cell jammer outside. Look at the bars—zero service."

Vance froze.

Then, the heavy steel roll-up doors of the warehouse blew inward with an ear-shattering blast of C4 explosives.

Shrapnel tore through the room. Smoke, thick and blinding, poured through the shattered entrance.

Through the fog walked four men with assault rifles, cutting down Vance’s outer sentries with surgical, three-round bursts. Behind them walked Adrien Moretti.

I wore no tactical vest. No helmet. Only my dark trench coat, fluttering in the cold lake wind, and a pair of customized Berettas.

"Moretti!" Vance screamed, drawing his Glock and firing blindly into the smoke.

The gunfight lasted less than ninety seconds. My men advanced with ruthless military precision, executing Vance's crew one by one as they scrambled for cover. Concrete chips rained down; muzzle flashes lit up the dark interior like strobe lights.

When the gunfire ceased, the only man left standing among the dead was Marcus Vance, clutching his bleeding thigh, backed up against the edge of the river pier outside the loading dock.

He was sobbing, snot and rain mixing on his face.

"Stay back!" Vance shrieked, pointing his empty gun at me. It clicked uselessly. *Click. Click.* "Stay the fuck back! You don't know her! She’s a lying cunt! She stole my daughter!"

I walked up to him slowly, the soles of my Italian leather boots splashing through puddles of rain and blood.

I stopped six inches from him. I towered over him, my shadow swallowing him completely.

"She didn't steal your daughter, Marcus," I said softly. "She rescued her from a monster."

"Mia is my blood!" Vance spit, his eyes wild with fury. "Mine! I can do whatever I want to her! You can't take her from me!"

My hand shot out like an iron vice, clamping around Vance’s throat.

I lifted him off his feet, walking him backward until his spine was pressed against the rusty railing over the churning, ice-cold waters of the Calumet River.

His feet dangled over the abyss.

"Mia is not yours," I whispered, leaning in close so he could see the cold, unyielding promise in my eyes. "She has a father now. A real one. One who will teach her how to walk tall, how to laugh, and how to command the world. And if anyone ever tries to hurt her again... I will hunt them to the ends of the earth and feed their bones to the dogs."

Vance’s eyes widened with pure terror as he finally realized what was happening.

"Wait... please... Moretti... have mercy—"

"I don't have mercy," I said. "I have Elena and Mia."

I released my grip and shoved him over the rail.

There was a splash in the pitch-black water thirty feet below, followed by the churning roar of an industrial barge passing through the channel.

He never surfaced.

I turned my back on the river, pulled a silver lighter from my pocket, and lit a cigarette.

"Burn the warehouse," I ordered Frank, who was waiting near the van. "Leave nothing."

"Understood, boss. And the Castellanos?"

I took a long drag of smoke, watching the embers glow in the Chicago darkness. "Send Don Castellano the head of his lead hitman in a gift box. Tell him that if another car from his family enters my territory, I will wipe his surname out of the history books."

"Yes, sir. Where are you going?"

I threw the lighter into the puddle of gasoline spreading from the exploded Dodge Charger. A wall of orange flame erupted behind me, lighting up the midnight sky.