"They beat my housekeeper nearly unconscious because she wore my family crest, then left her bleeding in the rain as a warning to me. But the men who attacked Emma Carter made one fatal mistake: they thought hurting someone under my protection would frighten me.

The rain was falling in blinding sheets by the time we crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn.

The Red Star was a narrow, three-story brick building nestled between an abandoned meatpacking warehouse and an auto repair shop on Atlantic Avenue. Neon red light bled through the rain, reflecting off the slick cobblestones of the alleyway. Bass notes from heavy electronic music vibrated through the foundation, muffling the sounds of the city.

We parked the SUV two blocks away in an unlit alley.

Marco checked his tactical tablet, bringing up the blueprints of the building’s basement structure, which our informants had purchased six months prior.

“There are two armed guards at the alley door,” Marco explained, pointing to red blips on the digital layout. “Four more inside the main gambling room. Sokolo keeps his private counting office in the back, behind a reinforced steel security door.”

I pulled my leather gloves tight over my fingers.

“We don't use the front entrance,” I said flatly. “Breach the rear alley door. Silence the outer guards before they can hit the alarm.”

Two of my men, Antonio and Luca, moved through the shadows with the silent, fluid speed of trained wolves. They carried suppressed submachine guns tucked beneath their rain ponchos.

I watched from the corner of the brick wall as Antonio closed the distance on the first Russian guard standing beneath the dripping awning. Before the guard could even reach for his coat pocket, Antonio stepped behind him, driving a combat knife precisely between his ribs while clamping a gloved hand over his mouth.

The second guard turned in surprise, but Luca was already there. A swift, brutal strike to his throat crushed his windpipe before he could make a sound, followed by a second blow that dropped him instantly onto the wet gravel.

Within twelve seconds, the rear entrance was clear.

Marco stepped up to the heavy steel door, attaching a small, square breach charge to the electronic magnetic lock.

“Count of three,” Marco whispered, stepping back.

Three. Two. One.

THUMP.

A muffled, localized explosion blew the magnetic lock from its frame with a spray of sparks.

Luca kicked the door inward, and we flooded into the basement corridor.

The air inside smelled of stale tobacco, cheap vodka, and sweat. Panic erupted instantly in the lower hallway as two Russian syndicate soldiers stepped out of a break room, reaching for their holstered weapons.

TAK-TAK. TAK-TAK.

Suppressors coughed in the narrow space. The two guards were thrown backward against the concrete wall, blood spraying across a poster of a Soviet boxing champion before they hit the floor.

We moved through the hallway like a wave of black iron, sweeping past the kitchen and into the main gambling hall.

The room was filled with illegal card tables, roulette wheels, and high-stakes players—wealthy corrupt businessmen, street enforcers, and mid-level loan sharks.

When my men kicked open the double doors of the hall, pointing heavy assault rifles into the room, screaming stopped the music dead.

“EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR! FACE DOWN! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!” Marco shouted, his voice echoing off the exposed brick walls.

Panic ensued as dozens of patrons scrambled beneath tables, throwing stacks of hundred-dollar bills into the air in their desperation to comply. Two guards near the roulette table tried to draw their handguns; my soldiers dropped them instantly with precise, non-lethal leg shots that sent them screaming to the floor.

I walked calmly down the center of the room, my heavy leather boots stepping over scattered poker chips and spilled vodka glasses.

I didn't look at the patrons. I didn't look at the money.

My eyes were locked onto the reinforced oak door at the far end of the hall.

Through the frosted glass window of the office, I could see a tall, heavily built man frantically sliding a heavy bolt into place. On his right wrist, visible beneath his rolled-up shirt sleeve, was a dark, coiled tattoo of a black cobra.

Lev Sokolo.

I stopped right outside his door.

“Sokolo,” I called out softly, my voice easily cutting through the whimpers of the terrified gamblers on the floor. “Open the door.”

From inside the office, a muffled, trembling voice shouted back in heavily accented English.

“Fuck you, Castellano! This is Bratva territory! You come in here, Kolov will put a million-dollar price on your head by morning!”