The Gold Coast mansion was silent, save for the rhythmic, deliberate clink of crystal against mahogany.

Inside Warehouse 4—a massive, cavernous building stacked high with wooden crates and shipping containers—a single overhead work light cast a sickly yellow glow over the concrete floor.

Marcus Delgado stood in the center of the warehouse, flanked by six armed enforcers holding silenced submachine guns. Delgado was a heavy-set man with slicked-back dark hair, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat that looked wildly out of place among the grease and rust.

“I want the girl,” Delgado snarled, pacing back and forth across the concrete. “And I want Kang brought to his knees before dawn. If Vance couldn’t do it through the courts, we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

Suddenly, the massive rolling steel door at the front of the warehouse groaned.

Creeeeeaaak.

The heavy door slowly rose, lifting upward into the darkness.

Outside, framed by the icy mist and the amber glow of the streetlights, stood a single figure.

Nathan Kang.

He wasn't wearing his charcoal wool coat. He wore a simple black turtleneck and heavy leather gloves, his broad shoulders squared against the freezing wind. He stood completely alone in the center of the open doorway.

“You’re trespassing, Nathan,” Delgado shouted, raising his hand to signal his men. “You think walking in here alone makes you brave? It just saves us the trouble of digging a grave.”

Nathan didn't move. He didn't raise his voice. He simply slid his hands into his pockets and tilted his head.

“Marcus,” Nathan said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the cavernous room. “You always were terrible at math. You thought buying off a federal prosecutor meant you owned the city.”

“Kill him,” Delgado snapped, dropping his hand.

Six enforcers raised their weapons.

Before the first trigger could be pulled, the overhead lights in the warehouse suddenly flickered, hissed, and went completely black.

Total darkness consumed the building.

“What the hell?!” one of the enforcers yelled.

In the pitch black, the sound of heavy metal footsteps echoed from the catwalks above.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Before Delgado’s men could react, the side doors of the warehouse blew inward with explosive force. Victor Han and a dozen elite operatives moved through the shadows with terrifying, silent precision.

It didn't take eight seconds. It took four.

Silenced cracks echoed through the darkness, followed by the heavy thud of bodies hitting concrete. Within moments, the emergency backup lights flickered on, casting a dim, red glow across the room.

All six of Delgado’s enforcers were disarmed and pinned to the floor.

And standing right behind Marcus Delgado, holding a sleek, custom-designed carbon-fiber baton against the back of his neck, was Mara Brooks.

Delgado froze, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. He tried to turn his head, but the baton pressed harder against his vertebrae.

“Don’t move, Marcus,” Mara whispered, her voice right beside his ear, sounding like ice grinding over glass. “You’re trespassing on my father’s property.”

Nathan walked slowly across the concrete floor, stopping two feet in front of the terrified mob boss. He looked down at Delgado the exact same way he had looked down at the drunk men under the Roosevelt Road overpass ten years ago.

“You wanted to bury me, Marcus,” Nathan said quietly.

Delgado gritted his teeth, glaring up with pure venom. “You can’t touch me, Kang. The Outfit will come after you. Every boss from here to New York will—snnnkk!”

Mara twisted the baton slightly, cutting off his breath with clinical efficiency.

“The Outfit isn't coming for you, Marcus,” Mara said coldly. “Because as of three hours ago, I transferred all of your offshore accounts, your shipping registries, and your federal indictments directly to the Organized Crime Strike Force. Your empire is already liquidated.”

Nathan looked down at Delgado, then turned his gaze to Mara.

“Let him up, Mara,” Nathan said.