Ten days. That was all the doctor believed my six-year-old twins had left, and for the first time in my life, all the money, guns, fear, and power I had built as one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses meant absolutely nothing. By three that afternoon, while death waited inside my mansion, a penniless woman stood outside my gates refusing to leave, and I had no idea she was about to change everything.

By 2:00 AM, the Chicago skyline was shrouded in a thick fog rolling off Lake Michigan.

In the sub-basement war room of the Mercer estate, twelve senior captains of the Mercer syndicate stood around a massive steel table covered in digital maps, encrypted radios, and tactical blueprints.

I stood at the head of the table, wearing a dark tactical vest over a black long-sleeve shirt.

Beside me stood Prescott, reviewing the real-time satellite feeds provided by our private security network.

"Blackwood pulled his remaining thirty men back to his primary stronghold," Prescott explained, pointing to a highlighted six-story concrete warehouse near the industrial docks on the South Side. "It's a former cold-storage facility. Reinforced walls, bulletproof glass, and automated perimeter turrets. He knows you're coming, Lawson."

"Good," I said smoothly, checking the chamber of my assault rifle. "I want him to know."

The reinforced door of the war room opened quietly.

Nora walked inside, wearing a dark fleece jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She held a silver USB drive in her hand.

The captains—hardened, brutal men who ruled Chicago's docks, casinos, and transit lines—all bowed their heads in quiet respect as she passed. In under six hours, word had spread through the entire organization about what the doctor's sister had done for the Mercer bloodline.

"Lawson," Nora said, stepping up to the steel table. "You don't need to breach the front gate with explosives."

I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

She plugged the USB drive into the main console. A complex architectural schematic filled the wall monitor.

"When I worked for BioVance," Nora explained, pointing to the lower level of the schematic, "Blackwood used that warehouse as an illegal chemical storage hub. There is an old industrial drainage tunnel running directly beneath the Chicago River that connects to the sub-basement cooling system. It bypasses his perimeter cameras and his automated turrets."

Prescott leaned over the console, his eyes wide. "If we send a breach team through the cooling tunnel, we can take the sub-basement security hub in three minutes without firing a single shot outside."

"How do you know the bypass code for the cooling doors?" I asked Nora, looking into her eyes.

"Because I designed the ventilation system for BioVance," Nora smiled faintly. "The master override code is Genevieve's birthday."

A low, dark chuckle rumbled from my chest.

Victor Blackwood had spent two years using Genevieve's death and my children's illness to destroy me, completely unaware that Genevieve's memory was the very key that would unlock his front door.

"Prescott," I commanded, turning to my second-in-command. "Take Team A through the river tunnel. Disable their main power grid at 03:00 AM sharp."

"Understood, Boss."

"Team B will hold the exterior perimeter," I continued, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Nobody leaves that warehouse alive. Not Blackwood. Not his lieutenants. Nobody."

I turned toward the door, but Nora reached out, grabbing my wrist. Her touch was warm, soft, and electric against my skin.

"Lawson," she whispered, her amber eyes burning with concern. "Come back to us. Jonah and Blythe need their father."