"The little boy pounding on my Ferrari window couldn’t have been older than five, but the terror in his eyes stopped me colder than any gun ever had. “Mom is dying... please help!” he cried. He had no idea the man behind that glass was one of Manhattan’s most feared mafia bosses, or that following him into a filthy alley would lead me to a woman who knew my real name and a secret I thought had been buried years ago.

The hallway of the safehouse turned into a killing floor within seconds.

I moved through the shadows of the second-floor landing, my movements silent and lethal. I caught the first two operatives as they pushed past the ruined entryway—thip, thip—suppressed rounds finding their marks with absolute, surgical precision. They dropped instantly, their tactical gear hitting the hardwood floor with heavy thuds.

“Second floor! Landing!” a harsh voice barked over a tactical radio down below.

Footsteps rushed up the stairs. Three men in black gear rounded the corner, their submachine guns raised.

I rolled behind a heavy oak display case just as a hail of bullets chewed through the wood, sending antique porcelain and glass shattering into dust. I didn't panic. I waited for the exact rhythm of their reloading cadence.

Click.

I stepped out from behind the cover, firing twice in rapid succession. Two men dropped. The third panicked, trying to bring his weapon around, but I closed the distance in a heartbeat, driving the butt of my pistol into his temple with bone-crushing force. He crumpled unconscious to the carpet.

“Boss! The panic room is sealed, Mrs. Rojas and the boy are secure!” Marcus’s voice crackled over my earpiece.

“Good. Clear the ground floor and cut off their exit routes,” I ordered, stepping over the fallen bodies and heading down the main staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs, standing in the center of the ruined foyer amidst the smoke and splintered wood, was a man holding a silver-plated desert eagle.

Salvatore Rossi.

He was older than me, with slicked-back gray hair, a permanent sneer carved into his face, and a tailored white suit that looked absurdly clean amid the carnage.

“Ethan, my boy,” Rossi laughed, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Word on the street was that you were going soft, spending your mornings playing hero in the slums. I didn't believe it until my scouts told me you brought a woman and a brat back to your castle.”

I stopped ten feet away from him, my pistol locked firmly on the center of his chest.

“You stepped onto my property, Salvatore,” I said, every word dropping like a lead weight. “You brought war into a house with a child. That was the last mistake you’ll ever make.”

Rossi sneered, raising his desert eagle slightly. “You think you own New York, Ethan? Without your bloodlines, without your secrecy, you’re just a stray dog. And stray dogs get put down.”

Before Rossi’s finger could squeeze his trigger, a sharp, deafening roar echoed from the courtyard outside.

Marcus and a dozen of my elite enforcers had just boxed in Rossi’s remaining SUVs, trapping his backup in a crossfire. Heavy caliber fire shredded the front windows, and within three seconds, Rossi’s remaining men dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

Rossi’s face turned the color of ash. He looked at his men, then back at me.

“It’s over, Salvatore,” I whispered, stepping closer until the barrel of my gun touched the skin beneath his chin.

“You... you can’t kill me,” Rossi stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. “The commission will tear your syndicate apart—”

“The commission answers to whoever holds the ports,” I interrupted coldly. “And as of tonight, I own every single shipping lane from here to Boston.”