Chicago's MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS came home THREE HOURS EARLY and caught his housekeeper secretly feeding FOUR IDENTICAL LITTLE BOYS who looked EXACTLY LIKE HIM—but when one child pointed at him and asked, “Is that the man from the picture?”, she dropped her spoon, and the photograph he found of his DEAD WIFE carried five terrifying words, “KEEP THEM SAFE FROM ALEJANDRO,” just seconds before THREE BLACK SUVs surrounded his mansion and his housekeeper whispered, “THEY FOUND THE BOYS...”

The Calumet River at midnight looked like the entrance to the underworld.

Thick, industrial fog rolled off the black, sluggish water, carrying the stench of rusted iron and sulfur. The abandoned grain silos rose out of the mist like colossal concrete headstones, remnants of Chicago’s long-dead industrial golden age.

Three black Mercedes sedans were parked near the edge of the decaying concrete pier. Beside them stood Dominic Soldano, dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, pacing back and forth with a glowing cigarette between his trembling fingers.

Around him were a dozen Russian mercenaries, their heavy Kalashnikov rifles slung across their tactical vests. At the center of the group stood Viktor Petrov—a broad-shouldered, silver-haired brute with a jagged scar running from his left temple down into his collar.

“Where is the transport, Viktor?” Dominic hissed, checking his platinum wristwatch for the tenth time. “The entire Cook County sheriff's department is locking down the North Side! Moretti wiped out your strike team in less than ten minutes!”

Petrov let out a guttural, mocking laugh, exhaling a thick plume of cigar smoke into the freezing air.

“You panic like an old woman, Dominic,” Petrov sneered. “The boat is already entering the river channel. In two hours, we will be in international waters across Lake Michigan. And tomorrow morning, when Moretti discovers that his precious sons have nowhere left to hide, we will—”

Petrov never finished the sentence.

From three hundred yards away, atop the roof of an abandoned conveyor belt tower, a single high-caliber rifle cracked through the fog.

The Mercedes right behind Dominic violently detonated into a massive ball of orange flame as a .50-caliber incendiary round punched straight through its fuel cell. The shockwave knocked three mercenaries into the freezing river water, their screams muffled by the roaring fire.

“AMBUSH!” Petrov roared, drawing his weapon.

Before the echoes of the explosion could fade, the darkness erupted.

Four armored SUVs, painted matte black with heavy steel battering rams mounted to their grills, smashed through the rusted chain-link gates of the industrial park. Their high-intensity halogen roof racks illuminated the pier in blinding white light, exposing Dominic and his surviving men like rats trapped in an open cage.

From the lead SUV, I stepped out.

I was no longer wearing a suit. I wore black tactical fatigues, a combat vest, and carried an HK416 assault rifle. Behind me, thirty Moretti soldiers poured out of the vehicles, forming an impenetrable firing line that advanced across the gravel with mechanical precision.

Dominic looked toward the blinding lights, squinting through the glare. When his eyes recognized my silhouette walking through the fire and smoke, all the strength drained from his legs. He fell to his knees on the concrete, clutching his hands to his chest.

“Alejandro!” Dominic screamed over the crackle of burning gasoline. “Wait! Listen to me! It wasn't my idea! Petrov forced my hand! He threatened my family!”

Petrov didn't waste time begging.

The Russian commander raised his weapon, firing a burst toward my line. “Kill him! Kill the bastard!”

My men returned fire.

The noise was absolute, deafening thunder. A wall of lead tore through the pier, turning the remaining Mercedes into Swiss cheese, shattering glass and ripping through the concrete bollards. The Russian mercenaries were cut down where they stood, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating volume of disciplined fire.

Within ninety seconds, the gunfire ceased.

The only sounds remaining were the crackle of the burning wreckage, the gentle lapping of the river against the pilings, and Dominic’s pathetic, weeping sobs.

Petrov was still alive, propped up against the bumper of a burning vehicle, his leg shredded by shrapnel, his chest heaving with shallow, bloody breaths.

I walked past the bodies, my boots crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings, until I stood directly over the Russian boss.

Petrov looked up at me, coughing a mouthful of blood onto his lapel. Even in death, his eyes burned with venomous spite.

“You... you think you won, Moretti?” Petrov gasped, a bloody grin stretching across his teeth. “You think... this ends with me?”

I looked down at him without expression. “I know it ends with you.”

“The Commission... will never let you keep those boys,” Petrov coughed, clutching his bleeding stomach. “Four heirs? Four future kings? The other families are terrified of what you will become with a dynasty behind you. They will send... armies. They will hunt them down until—”

I pressed the muzzle of my rifle to the center of Petrov’s forehead.

“Then I will kill their armies,” I said softly.

I pulled the trigger.

Petrov’s head snapped back against the tire, and his body went limp.

I turned slowly to face Dominic.

My former underboss was trembling so violently his teeth were chattering audibly. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with the realization that no amount of money, no plea for mercy, and no shared history would save him from what was coming.

“Alejandro... please,” Dominic wept, dragging himself across the gravel toward my boots. “We were brothers. We took the oath together in your father’s basement. Sofia... Sofia was out of her mind with paranoia! I was trying to save the syndicate!”

“You let my wife die alone in a hospital basement,” I said, my voice barely louder than the winter wind.

“She forced my hand!”

“You sent mercenaries to murder four four-year-old children who shared my blood.”

“Alejandro, please! By Christ’s blood, have mercy!”

I lowered my rifle, handing it to Carlo, who stood silently at my side. I drew the Kimber .45 from my hip holster.

“My wife showed you mercy by keeping silent for five years,” I whispered, stepping close enough that Dominic could see the reflection of the burning fire in my pupils. “I am not my wife.”

*Bang.*

Dominic collapsed onto the cold concrete of the pier.

I turned my back on the corpses, holstering my weapon without looking down. “Burn the pier,” I instructed Carlo. “Leave nothing but ashes for the harbor police. And summon every capo, every underboss, and every family representative in Chicago.”

“Where, Boss?” Carlo asked, adjusting his tactical vest.