"The morning I collapsed beside Adrian Moretti’s grave at Saint Gabriel Cemetery, I pressed my hand against his name and finally whispered that I had loved him. My wedding dress dragged through the dirt as I begged a dead man to forgive me. Then I heard a shoe scrape against the stone behind the mausoleum. I turned, but whoever had been watching me disappeared before I could see his face. Hours later, I discovered something inside the flowers on Adrian’s grave that could only have come from him. And there would be no coming back from it.

Midnight in the federal courthouse was a ghost town, save for the hum of automated servers and the muffled footsteps of night-shift guards.

In the subterranean holding block, three cells down from Adrian’s maximum-security holding unit, a shadow detached itself from the ventilation alcove near the ceiling.

A figure dressed in the dark tactical gear of a federal guard dropped silently onto the concrete floor. He moved with practiced, predatory ease, pulling a specialized electronic keycard from his belt.

He swiped the card against the biometric lock of Cell 402.

Click.

The heavy steel door slid open a fraction of an inch.

Inside, Adrian Moretti sat on the edge of the narrow cot, his arms resting on his knees, staring at the opposing wall. He didn't look up as the door opened, assuming it was another routine intimidation visit from Daniel’s marshals.

“I told your boss I have nothing to say,” Adrian said flatly, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

“My boss sends his regards,” a low, raspy voice replied.

Adrian’s head snapped up.

Stepping into the dim light of the cell was Marcus, his chief of security—alongside a man Adrian hadn't expected to see walking on two legs ever again.

Silas. The old veteran who had supposedly been eliminated during the warehouse raids six months ago.

Adrian stood up slowly, disbelief flashing across his face. “Silas? How... I saw the reports. The safehouse explosion—”

“Reports are easily faked when you own the coroner, boss,” Silas grinned, a thin scar stretching across his weathered cheek as he handed Adrian a heavy-duty tactical combat knife and a suppressed pistol. “And Marcus here knows every blind spot in this federal bunker better than the architects who drew the blueprints.”

Adrian took the weapons, his fingers checking the weight and balance with instant familiarity. “Where is Elena?”

“Holding block B, floor above us,” Marcus reported, tapping a ruggedized tablet screen. “Hart has her scheduled for a forced deposition at 8:00 AM to lock her into a conspiracy charge. But Luca is moving faster than Hart realizes. Our intercept feeds show Luca’s private hit squad is breaching the courthouse loading dock right now to eliminate both you and Hart in one clean sweep.”

Adrian’s eyes narrowed into dark, lethal slits. “Luca thinks he can clean house under the cover of a federal raid.”

“He’s about to find out why they used to call you the apex predator of the Midwest,” Silas said, cocking his weapon. “We moving, boss?”