The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch.

Viktor Rostov operated out of an abandoned meatpacking plant on the industrial fringes of the Chicago River. The air reeked of rusted iron and damp concrete.

My titanium wheelchair rolled silently across the grease-stained floor, flanked by Luke and two elite security operatives. But it was Emma who walked a step ahead of me, holding the original deed like a shield and a spear.

Rostov waited under a single swinging overhead light, sitting on an overturned crate, cleaning a jagged hunting knife with a silk rag.

"Daniel Vance," Rostov purred, his accent thick and oily. "I heard the great cripple of the Gold Coast had retired from the board. Yet here you are, rolling into my slaughterhouse for a piece of paper."

"The paper belongs to her," I said, my voice cutting through the damp air like a razor.

Rostov laughed, standing up to his full, imposing height of six-foot-four. "Everything in Chicago belongs to whoever has the leverage, Vance. And right now, I hold the mortgage on the old lady’s bed and the sister’s apartment. You want them cleared? You hand over the South Side shipping lanes."

"I don't negotiate with imported trash," I replied, and before Rostov could smile, Emma moved.

She didn't punch him or pull a weapon. She pulled a micro-recorder from her pocket—the one we had wired into her blazer—and hit play.

The tinty, undeniable voice of Viktor Rostov echoed off the concrete walls: “We buy the mortgages, squeeze the girl, and force Vance to sign over the ports or watch her family burn on the evening news.”

From the shadows behind the packing crates, four federal agents stepped out, their badges gleaming under the halogen light, led by the Internal Affairs commander I had quietly tipped off two hours prior.