The cold steel of the Beretta pressing against my spine should have woken me instantly, but deep exhaustion has a way of blurring the line between survival and oblivion. I remained dead to the world, my cheek pillowed against the solid expanse of Victor Hayes’s chest, my breathing slow and even. For five endless seconds, the most dangerous man in Chicago stared down at me, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.

Twelve hours later, our private jet touched down in the dead of night at a hidden airstrip outside Chicago. The bitter winter wind bit through our coats, carrying the familiar scent of industrial smoke and freezing asphalt.

Paul was waiting on the tarmac with two armored SUVs and an elite detail of twelve heavily armed enforcers.

"Boss, Lady Elena," Paul greeted us crisply, handing Victor an encrypted tactical tablet. "The New York faction is holding Liam at an abandoned steel mill in the industrial district. They know we're coming. They're broadcasting an open invitation."

Victor swiped across the tablet, studying the structural blueprints of the mill, noting every entry point, sniper nest, and escape route.

"They want a final standoff," Victor said coldly, strapping his shoulder holster into place. "They think taking the brother will break us."

"They don't know who they're dealing with," I added, sliding a fresh magazine into my silver-plated pistol and clicking it home with a satisfying snap.

The SUVs tore through the empty, snow-slicked streets of Chicago like midnight phantoms. As we approached the massive, rusted skeletal frame of the abandoned steel mill, the towering smokestacks loomed against the dark sky like jagged teeth.

Around the perimeter, at least twenty armed operatives in New York syndicate gear patrolled the gates, floodlights sweeping across the frozen mud.

"Here is the play," Victor said, his voice cutting through the hum of the idling engine as he turned to look at me and Paul. "Paul, take the southern perimeter and cut off their vehicle escape. Elena... you and I take the main loading dock."

"Victor, no," Paul objected immediately. "That's a suicide charge. The main dock is a killing floor."

"It's only a killing floor if they expect us to use the door," Victor replied with a dark, calculated smile. He turned to me. "Are you ready, Elena?"