I traced the crest etched into the tarnished metal: a coiled viper wrapped around a shattered crown. The emblem of the Valenti crime family. The same bloodline that had ambushed my father’s motorcade twenty years ago, leaving him dead in a rain-slicked alleyway and handing me the bloody reigns of the Morelli empire at nineteen.

The air duct was tight, cold, and coated in decades of black dust. I crawled on my elbows and knees, my lungs burning, dragging myself forward purely on adrenaline and sheer, unadulterated vengeance.

Beep... beep... beep...

Elena’s face flashed in my mind. Her warm brown eyes. Her gentle touch on my arm when my nephew was dying. She had known who I was. She had known I was the son of the man her father helped murder. Yet she had chosen to save my family anyway.

She wasn't my enemy. She was the only clean thing left in my twisted world.

I reached a junction in the duct. Below me, through a metal grate, I could hear voices. I peered down and saw the Saint Regis security office. Three of Dominic’s mercenaries were standing over the hotel guard, who was tied to a chair and bleeding.

I didn't ask questions. I didn't announce myself.

I kicked the metal grate open, dropped down twelve feet, and landed directly on the shoulders of the nearest guard, snapping his neck as we hit the floor. Before the other two could raise their weapons, I drew my Kimber and fired twice—one round through the first man’s chest, the second through the second man’s throat.

They collapsed in a heap of silent silver brass and blood.

I stepped over the bodies, untied the terrified hotel guard, and grabbed a radio off one of the dead mercenaries.

“Marco,” I spoke into the radio, my voice cold enough to freeze hell.

Static hummed over the speaker for two long seconds. Then Marco’s voice came back, trembling with sudden terror. “Julian? How... how are you alive? You were locked in the vault—”

“Tell Dominic I’m coming,” I cut him off. “And tell him he’d better pray the police catch him before I do.”

I threw the radio aside, grabbed a tactical shotgun from the dead guard’s equipment bag, and ran out into the rainy night.

My Maybach was gone—Marco had taken it. But idling at the curb was a black Dodge Charger belonging to one of Dominic’s hitmen. I smashed the driver’s side window with the butt of the shotgun, hotwired the ignition, and slammed my foot onto the gas pedal.

The tires roared against the wet asphalt, sending up a plume of white smoke as the car launched forward into the Midtown traffic.

It took me six minutes to reach St. Mary’s Hospital. Six agonizing minutes where every second felt like a year.

I pulled up straight onto the sidewalk, shattering the glass doors of the emergency entrance, and leaped out of the car with the shotgun in my hand.

Panic erupted in the lobby. Nurses screamed, patients scattered, but I didn't care. I shoved my way toward the service elevators, slammed my hand against the button for the third floor, and watched the digital numbers count up.

3...

When the elevator doors slid open, two of Dominic’s men were standing outside Recovery Room Four, holding silenced pistols.

I racked the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The heavy blast tore through the first guard, throwing him backward into the wall. I pumped the handle and fired again, catching the second guard in the shoulder, dropping him instantly to the linoleum.

I kicked open the door to Room Four.

Inside, a man in a black suit was standing over Elena’s bed. He had already disconnected her oxygen mask and was reaching for the IV tube carrying her heart medication.

“Touch that line,” I growled, raising the shotgun to his head, “and I’ll blow your face through that window.”

The man froze. Slowly, he raised his hands, turning around to face me.