I stepped past the door frame, my leather shoes clicking softly against the linoleum floor.

The abandoned meatpacking plant on Ashland Avenue smelled of old iron, stale sawdust, and impending violence.

The sprawling brick structure sat brooding beneath the gray Chicago sky, its broken windows staring out like sightless eyes across a weed-choked parking lot. According to Vinnie’s digital tracking ping—hidden discretely inside the lining of the transport van’s emergency kit—Linda and Keo were being held somewhere on the third-floor refrigeration level.

My Maybach slid into the shadows of an alley three hundred yards away, its headlights dark.

Vinnie, Luca, Dante, and I stepped out into the damp chill. We weren't wearing suits tonight; we were dressed in dark tactical gear, our faces shadowed, moving with the practiced, silent efficiency of a black-ops unit.

“Layout?” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the rusted metal loading dock doors.

“Single entry point on the ground floor,” Dante murmured, tapping a tablet screen. “Two guards stationed inside the main bay. Vance and a detail of four hitters are set up in the old administrative office on the third floor overlooking the freezing bays.”

“And Linda and the boy?”

“Tied up in the cold storage locker adjacent to the office,” Vinnie said, his jaw clenched tight. “Vance wanted to keep the kid's temperature controlled so he doesn't go into shock before he can use him as leverage.”

A cold fury surged through my veins—sharp, focused, and lethal.

“Listen to me,” I told my men, my gaze sweeping across their faces. “We go in fast, and we go in quiet. If anyone harms a hair on that woman or her son, you don't aim for the chest. You put them down permanently. Am I understood?”

“Crystal, Boss,” Luca muttered, chambering a round into his suppressed submachine gun.

We moved across the asphalt like wraiths.

The ground-floor door was secured with a heavy steel padlock. Dante didn't bother picking it; he produced a small thermal cutting torch, and in three silent seconds, the iron shackle melted away with a shower of white-hot sparks.

We slipped inside into the pitch-black interior.

The two guards standing near the freight elevator never even heard us coming. Luca materialized behind the first one, a heavy forearm wrapping around his neck with a sickening snap before he could draw breath. Dante caught the second guard mid-fall, easing his limp body silently onto the concrete floor.

“Clear,” Dante whispered.

We stepped onto the freight elevator cage, pulled the iron gate shut, and manually hauled the cable upward toward the third floor.

The metal car groaned softly as it rose, each foot carrying us closer to the lion’s den.

When the cage hit the third-floor landing, the iron gate slid open with a faint metallic scrape.

We stepped out into a long, dimly lit hallway lined with peeling green paint and exposed conduits. At the far end, heavy double doors led into the administrative office. Muffled voices drifted down the corridor—Vance’s rough, arrogant laugh cutting through the gloom.

“Call Gallo,” Vance was saying inside. “Tell him if he wants his favorite cleaning girl back in one piece, he brings the North Side ports to my desk by midnight. No cops, no games.”

I didn't wait for him to finish his sentence.