Owen Pike’s hands shook so violently that the lukewarm coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug, staining the cheap laminate of his kitchen table.

The ambush didn't happen in the courtroom. It happened on the docks.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Roman’s black SUV caravan rolled into Harbor Ridge. The town was quiet, the air thick with the smell of salt and incoming storm clouds.

Roman had bypassed the blue house and gone straight to the coastal medical clinic where Elena had taken Noah for his one-month checkup. He had to see him. Even from a distance, he needed to look at his son's face.

As Roman and Gabriel stepped out of the vehicle, the hair on the back of Gabriel’s neck stood up.

"Roman," Gabriel muttered, his hand moving subtly inside his jacket toward his holster. "Look at the gray sedan by the bait shop. That’s not a local car."

Before Roman could reply, the rear doors of the gray sedan flew open. Three men stepped out, carrying automatic weapons. From the opposite side of the street, a second vehicle blocked the intersection.

They weren't there to serve legal papers. They were there to kill.

"Get down!" Gabriel roared, pulling his weapon and firing three rapid shots into the windshield of the approaching sedan.

The quiet coastal air was shattered by the deafening roar of gunfire. Passersby screamed, diving behind parked boats and wooden crates. Roman drew his own custom silver Beretta, crouching behind the wheel well of his SUV as bullets tore through the metal bodywork above his head.

"It’s Marcone’s men!" Gabriel shouted over the din. "They aren't trying to protect Elena—they're trying to eliminate you while you're away from your territory!"

Through the smoke and the chaos, Roman looked toward the glass doors of the clinic.

Elena was standing inside the vestibule, clutching Noah tightly against her chest. Her eyes were wide with terror as she watched the shootout unfolding on the asphalt outside. A stray bullet shattered the upper pane of the clinic door, sending shards of glass raining down around her.

She screamed, ducking into a corner to shield the baby with her own body.

Roman didn't think about the Commission. He didn't think about his pride, or his empire, or his territory. He saw a man with a scarred face aiming a rifle directly through the shattered clinic door toward the corner where Elena was trapped.

With a roar of pure, primal rage, Roman stood up from his cover, exposing himself completely to the line of fire.

He fired four shots in rapid succession. The man with the rifle collapsed into the gravel. But before Roman could drop back down, a sharp, searing heat tore through his left shoulder, followed immediately by a second impact in his lower ribs.

He staggered backward, his vision blurring as he fell against the side of his SUV.

"Roman!" Gabriel yelled, rushing forward to lay down suppressive fire as the remaining attackers, realizing their primary hit had failed and the local police sirens were echoing in the distance, scrambled back into their vehicles and sped away.

The silence that returned to the docks was heavy, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens and the sound of Roman’s ragged breathing.

He slumped to the ground, his hand pressed against his bleeding ribs. Through his fading vision, he saw Elena run out of the clinic. She didn't look at the dead men. She ran straight toward him, dropping to her knees in the mud.

"Roman! Roman, look at me!" her voice was frantic, filled with a strange, agonizing panic.

Roman smiled weakly, blood staining his lips. He lifted his right hand—the clean one—and gently touched the white blanket covering Noah’s head. The baby was crying, loud and healthy.