The most feared mafia boss in Chicago came home three hours early and found his housekeeper secretly feeding four identical little boys at the dining table no one had touched since his wife died. He was about to demand an explanation when one boy pointed at him and asked, “Elena, is that the man from the picture?” The spoon fell from her hand.

The wind blowing off Lake Michigan was razor-sharp, carrying the scent of freezing water and diesel exhaust across the sprawling industrial shipping yards of the Chicago docks.

Dock 42 was locked down under private security. Four black luxury sedans were parked near an open warehouse bay, surrounded by fifteen heavily armed guards wearing leather jackets and tactical vests.

Inside the warehouse, standing over a table covered in stacks of hundred-dollar bills and shipping manifests, was Captain Jimmy "The Bull" Vane. Vane was a burly, thick-necked mobster who had managed the syndicate’s maritime smuggling routes for fifteen years.

He was currently screaming into a cell phone, his face red with rage.

“What do you mean the strike team failed?!” Vane roared, slamming his fist onto the metal table. “Moretti was supposed to be dead two hours ago! Carmine promised me total control over the Midwest ports the second Moretti was put in the ground!”

He paused, listening to the panicked voice on the other end of the line.

“I don't care if his security team locked down the estate!” Vane spat. “Get every available crew to the estate now! If Moretti survives the night, he’s going to hang all of us from the bridge girders!”

“He won't have to hang you, Jimmy,” a voice echoed from the shadowed rafters above the warehouse table. “A bullet is much faster.”

Vane’s eyes bulged in shock. He dropped the phone, reaching frantically for the chrome-plated magnum holstered at his waist.

POW. POW.

Two high-caliber suppressed rounds tore through Vane’s wrists, shattering the bones and knocking the weapon from his grip before he could clear his holster. He screamed in pain, falling to his knees, blood spraying across the stacks of cash on the table.

Before his outer guards could react, the heavy corrugated steel doors of the warehouse were blown off their hinges by explosive breaching charges.

BOOM!

Smoke and fire poured into the space as Dom and the Iron Guard moved in with mechanical, terrifying precision. Suppressed automatic gunfire cut through the air, dropping Vane’s guards where they stood. Within twelve seconds, all fifteen of Vane’s men were lying dead on the concrete floor.

I dropped down from the steel support beams above, landing silently on the blood-splattered concrete five feet from where Vane was kneeling, clutching his shattered wrists and weeping in agony.

I walked over slowly, the heavy rubber soles of my tactical boots making a soft, rhythmic crunch against the broken glass on the floor.

“Alejandro... please!” Vane sobbed, his face covered in sweat and tears as he looked up at me. “It wasn't my idea! Carmine... Carmine threatened my family! He said he’d burn my docks to the ground if I didn't help Marco clear the gate codes!”

I knelt down in front of him, pulling out Sofia’s journal and opening it to the page where his name was written in her elegant hand.

“My wife knew about you three years ago, Jimmy,” I said softly, my voice cold as the arctic wind outside. “She recorded every wire transfer you received from New York. You didn't do this out of fear. You did it for six million dollars and a promise of promotion.”

Vane’s face went dead white. He realized in an instant that no lie, no plea, and no amount of money could save him.

“She... she was just a woman...” Vane rasped, his voice trembling violently. “You’re fighting a losing war, Moretti! Carmine has three hundred soldiers in New York! He owns the federal judges! He owns the Coast Guard! You can't beat him!”

“Carmine built an empire on fear,” I said, resting the cold barrel of my pistol against Vane’s forehead. “I am going to build his funeral on his blood.”

“Wait—!”

BANG.

I stood up as Vane’s body slumped sideways against the table leg.

Dom walked up beside me, lowering his weapon and handing me a secure satellite communicator.

“The other two traitors—Captain Frank and Captain Russo—just tried to flee the city,” Dom reported smoothly. “My team intercepted Russo at O'Hare airport. Frank was caught trying to cross the Indiana border. Both have been liquidated.”

“Then the Chicago house is clean,” I said, handing the tablet back to him.

“What are our orders, Boss?” Dom asked, his eyes sharp. “The local police will be crawling all over this sector within twenty minutes.”

I turned, looking out through the open warehouse doors toward the eastern horizon, where the first faint traces of dawn were beginning to break over the black waters of Lake Michigan.

“Load the heavy weapons onto the long-range private transport,” I commanded, my voice cold and unwavering. “We leave for New York within the hour.”