“Daddy, don’t leave again.” Those four words stopped me colder than any threat I had heard in twenty years as one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses. A four-year-old girl I had never met was asleep on my sofa calling for me, and when her eyes opened for one brief second, I saw something that made my blood run cold: they were the exact same gray as mine.

The rain had returned with a vengeance, driving down in heavy sheets that obscured the pine trees surrounding the Lake Forest estate.

At the south edge of the property, three unmarked black vans cut their headlights, sliding quietly into the dense tree line. Eight men dressed in black tactical gear and carrying suppressed automatic weapons slipped out of the vehicles, moving silently across the wet lawn toward the dark glass windows of the East Wing.

Leading the squad was Mateo Marcone—a tall, lean man with a scarred neck and dark, cruel eyes.

“Keep it quiet,” Mateo whispered into his communicator as they reached the terrace. “Find the doctor, secure her, kill anyone else in the wing. We take her back to Cicero for questioning.”

They reached the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading into the conservatory. One of the men attached a small, suction-mounted breaching charge to the handle.

Click.

The glass doors didn't explode—they simply slid open automatically from the inside.

Mateo froze, his weapon raised.

The interior of the conservatory was pitch black, save for a single spotlight that suddenly clicked on near the far wall, illuminating a high-backed leather chair facing the entrance.

Sitting in the chair was Nathaniel Cross.

He was dressed in a dark suit, an unlit cigar between his fingers, holding a heavy glass of scotch in his left hand. Resting across his lap was a tactical shotgun.

Standing in the shadows on either side of the room were twelve Syndicate enforcers, their weapons trained directly on Mateo’s squad.

“Welcome to Lake Forest, Mateo,” Nathaniel said, his deep voice echoing through the acoustics of the glass conservatory. “You’re late.”

Mateo’s eyes widened in sheer horror as he realized the trap. “Cross—”

“Fire,” Nathaniel commanded quietly.

The conservatory erupted into a deafening storm of gunfire. The suppressed weapons of Marcone’s men were completely overwhelmed by the tactical firepower of the Syndicate guards. Muzzle flashes illuminated the glass room like violent lightning strikes.

Mateo threw himself behind a stone pillar, firing blindly toward the center of the room, his men falling one by one onto the wet marble floor.

Nathaniel stood up from his chair, racking the slide of his shotgun with a heavy, metallic clack. He walked forward calmly through the crossfire, a predator moving through his own domain.

He reached the stone pillar where Mateo was cowering, his weapon empty.

Nathaniel reached out, grabbing Mateo by the tactical vest, dragging him out into the light, slamming him heavily against the marble floor. He placed the heavy steel barrel of the shotgun directly against Mateo’s forehead.

“Wait! Wait!” Mateo gasped, bleeding from a shoulder wound, his hands raised in frantic surrender. “It was just a contract, Cross! The New York family wanted the doctor! We didn't know she was under your protection!”

Nathaniel looked down at the man who had terrorized Elena for five years—the man who had threatened the peace of his daughter.

“She’s not under my protection, Mateo,” Nathaniel whispered, his steel-gray eyes devoid of mercy. “She’s my wife.”