A MAFIA BOSS FOUND HIS YOUNG MAID BRUISED AND TERRIFIED AT 3 AM—BUT WHEN HE DISCOVERED HIS OWN SECURITY GUARD WAS BEHIND IT, ONE FRIGHTENING CLUE POINTED TO SOMEONE EVEN MORE POWERFUL...

The blast had obliterated the historic glass conservatory on the estate's north wing, sending shards of antique stained glass raining across the marble corridors like deadly shrapnel. Smoke, thick with the acrid stench of C4 and diesel fuel, began rolling beneath the dining hall doors.

Vincent moved with the ruthless, practiced efficiency of a man who had survived three separate gang wars.

He grabbed Emily by the arm—firmly, but with careful regard for her bruised ribs—and pulled her behind the heavy mahogany serving island that anchored the center of the room. “Keep your head down,” he commanded, his voice steady as granite. “No matter what happens, you do not stand up until I tell you.”

Emily nodded, her hand gripping the edge of the counter, her eyes wide in the crimson emergency lighting. “What about them?” She glanced toward the shadows where Dominic and Sophia were cowering.

Dominic was curled beneath the banquet table in a fetal position, sobbing hysterically. Sophia, however, was on her feet, her eyes glittering with manic desperation as she heard Russian voices barking orders in the smoke-filled corridor just outside the dining hall doors.

“Alexei!” Sophia shrieked toward the locked double doors. “I’m in here! Break the lock! Vincent is inside!”

“You stupid, treacherous cunt,” Vincent muttered under his breath.

The heavy oak doors exploded inward under the concussive force of a breaching charge. Splintered wood and twisted brass flew through the air. Through the smoking breach stepped four heavily armed men clad in black tactical gear, helmets, and night-vision goggles, their Kalashnikov carbines raised to high-ready.

Behind them strode Alexei Volkov—a hulking, scarred mountain of a man wearing a black leather trench coat, his gold teeth catching the crimson emergency light as he grinned.

“Vincent Moretti!” Alexei boomed in thick, gravelly Russian-accented English. “Chicago is too small for you, my friend! It is time for new management!”

“Alexei!” Sophia cried out, stumbling out from the shadows, her arms outstretched toward the Russian mobster. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

Alexei didn't even look at her. Without breaking his stride, the Russian commander swung his left arm, his heavy gloved backhand catching Sophia squarely across the jaw.

The impact sounded like a pistol shot. Sophia let out a strangled shriek, crashing sideways onto the shattered remains of the dining table, her lip split, her cheek instantly swelling—a mirror image of the injuries she had ordered Marcus to inflict on Emily just hours before.

“Shut up, stupid woman,” Alexei spat, not sparing her a second glance. “You talk too much. You think Bratva works for society princess? We take city. We do not share with whores.”

From behind the serving island, Vincent stepped into the open.

He did not raise his weapon immediately. He stood tall, the smoke swirling around his tailored suit, looking entirely unbothered by the four assault rifles trained directly on his chest.

“Alexei,” Vincent greeted him, his tone as conversational as if they were meeting in a private cigar lounge. “You brought four men into my home to die. Where are the other thirty-six?”

Alexei’s grin faltered slightly. His tactical radio crackled with static, but no voices reported in.

“My perimeter guards had a surprise for your convoy, Alexei,” Vincent said, tapping his watch. “Five hundred gallons of aviation fuel pumped through the decorative fountain lines, ignited by remote detonators the moment your trucks hit the lawn. Your men are currently burning in my rose garden.”

Alexei’s eyes widened in sudden fury. “Shoot him!” he bellowed.

The four gunmen raised their rifles.

Vincent didn't dive for cover. He dropped into a crouch and whistled—a sharp, piercing, two-tone frequency.

From the high decorative rafters twenty feet above the dining hall, a barrage of suppressed gunfire erupted with terrifying synchronization. Luca Rossi and three of Vincent’s elite marksmen, perched in the ceiling maintenance gantries, opened fire with submachine guns.

The four Russian mercenaries dropped like felled timber before they could squeeze their triggers, their tactical armor shredded by armor-piercing rounds.

Alexei roared in rage, reaching beneath his trench coat for a heavy drum-fed shotgun.

Vincent lunged forward. In three explosive strides, he closed the distance. He slapped the barrel of the shotgun aside just as Alexei fired, the blast gouging a crater into the ceiling plaster. Vincent drove his right palm into Alexei’s broken nose with the force of a hydraulic ram.

Bone crunched. Alexei stumbled backward, howling in pain, blood pouring down his face.

Vincent followed through with brutal precision: a sweeping low kick that shattered Alexei’s left knee, dropping the giant mobster to one leg, followed by a vicious elbow strike that snapped Alexei’s head sideways.

Before Alexei could recover, Vincent caught him by the throat, spun him around, and drove the Russian kingpin face-first onto the shattered dining table, right beside the trembling, bloodied Sophia Vance.

Vincent drew his Sig Sauer, pressing the smoking barrel directly between Alexei’s shoulder blades.

“You came into my city,” Vincent whispered, his chest heaving with controlled, rhythmic breaths. “You conspired with traitors. And you made a mess of my dining room.”

Alexei groaned, spitting teeth and dark blood onto the mahogany. “Do it, Moretti… kill me… my brothers in Moscow will drown this city in fire…”

“No,” Vincent replied coldly. “They won't. Because Emily Ross has your offshore banking codes. In approximately ten minutes, every ruble the Bratva holds in Western accounts will vanish into thin air.”

Vincent looked over his shoulder. “Emily. Come here.”

Emily stepped out from behind the serving counter. She walked through the smoke, stepping over the corpses of the fallen gunmen without hesitation. She looked at Alexei, then down at Sophia, who was whimpering in the corner, clutching her shattered jaw, staring up at the maid she had tried to destroy.

Vincent held out the Sig Sauer toward Emily, handle-first.

“It ends here,” Vincent said softly, his steel eyes locked on her. “Take your revenge. Sophia. Alexei. Dominic. Name them, and put them down.”