The wooden floorboards of my secluded cabin vibrated beneath the heavy weight of combat boots and tactical gear. Out on the snow-covered ridge, four hundred and twenty matte-black SUVs idled in silent formation, their exhaust plumes rising into the predawn sky like column fires.

Luca was trembling, his forehead pressed against my knee as I held him tightly. Beside us, Dante sat with his eyes closed, his face deathly pale. I could see the sweat beads forming on his brow despite the freezing temperature inside the cab.

I grabbed my medical kit, popping open the latches. "Hold still," I commanded, pulling out a light and checking his dilated pupils. "You're slipping into hemorrhagic shock. Your heart is working twice as hard to pump blood that you don't have."

"I'm fine," Dante growled through gritted teeth, pushing my hand away.

"You're not fine, you arrogant idiot!" I snapped, matching his cold tone. "If you faint while leading four hundred heavily armed men through an ambush, every single person in this convoy dies—including your son. Now let me do my damn job!"

Dante opened his eyes, staring at me with a dangerous mix of intrigue and dark fury. For a second, I thought he might order his men to toss me out into the snow. Instead, he slowly relaxed his posture and leaned back against the leather headrest.

"Do what you have to do," he muttered.

I cut open his bloody shirt, revealing the brutal torn wound near his shoulder. The stitches I had frantically placed in my cabin had snapped during the hasty evacuation. Fresh, dark blood was pulsing out with every beat of his heart.

Working with practiced precision, I pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and poured it directly into the open wound. Dante didn't scream; he merely clamped his jaw so hard I heard his teeth grind together, his fingers digging deep into the leather armrest until the seams split.

"Val!" Dante barked into his shoulder comms while I worked to re-suture the flesh. "What’s the status of the front flank?"

Val's panicked voice cracked over the comms system through heavy static. "Boss! We’ve got a massive block at the lower bridge! Rocco’s men rolled three fuel tankers across the lanes and set them ablaze! The whole pass is blocked! We're sitting ducks!"

Before Dante could respond, a terrifying THUD echoed across the roof of our armored vehicle.

"Sniper!" the driver yelled, violently swerving the heavy truck.

A barrage of heavy-caliber armor-piercing rounds suddenly hailed down on our convoy from the rocky cliffs above. High-powered rifle fire punched through the steel roofs of the outer SUVs, sending sparks and shattering bulletproof glass down the line. Screams echoed over the radio network.

"Hold on!" the driver screamed as he pulled the steering wheel hard to the right.

Our SUV skidded sideways across the ice, slamming into the concrete guardrail with bone-rattling force. Luca let out a terrified shriek. I instinctively wrapped my entire body over the boy, shielding his head with my arms as glass fragments rained down over us.

Through the window, I saw absolute chaos.

Dozens of masked gunmen clad in black tactical gear were rappelling down the steep canyon walls, tossing incendiary grenades directly onto our trapped convoy. Fireballs exploded left and right, flipping two of our escort SUVs into the deep ravine below.

"Clara, keep him down!" Dante shouted.

Despite his agonizing wound, Dante reached beneath his seat, unlatching a heavy metal case. He pulled out a sleek, matte-black automatic rifle and slammed a full magazine into the receiver.

"Dante, you can't fight! You're losing too much blood!" I screamed over the deafening noise of gunfire hitting our armored shell.

"If I don't fight, none of us wake up tomorrow!" he spat back.

He shoved the heavy door open, using the armored frame as a shield as he stepped directly into the freezing storm of lead. I watched through the cracked glass in horror and awe as the ruthless mob boss went to work.

Despite his injury, Dante fired with terrifying precision. Three short bursts echoed from his rifle, and three ambushers falling from the cliffs dropped instantly, their bodies plunging into the white snow below.

"Forward units, suppress that cliff face!" Dante commanded over the tactical radio, his voice roaring above the gunfire. "Heavy squad, roll the snowplows! Push those burning tankers into the river! WE MOVE OR WE DIE!"

From the rear of our four-hundred-vehicle convoy, three massive, custom-built steel snowplows surged forward, ignoring the hail of bullets bouncing off their reinforced plows. They slammed into the burning fuel tankers with unbelievable power, grinding metal against metal until the blazing wrecks tipped over the guardrail, crashing hundreds of feet into the icy river below.

The path was cleared.

Dante scrambled back into the SUV, slamming the heavy door shut. He slumped against the seat, gasping for air as blood soaked through the fresh bandages I had just applied.

"Get us out of here," Dante wheezed to the driver.

"Boss..." Val's voice came over the radio, trembling with cold terror. "We cleared the bridge, but Rocco just dropped a broadcast on every encrypted channel in North America. You need to see this."

Val sent a video feed directly to the dashboard monitor inside our vehicle.

The screen flickered to life. Sitting in a lavish, leather-bound office surrounded by heavily armed guards was a man who looked remarkably like Dante—same sharp jawline, same piercing dark eyes, but with a cruel, cold smile carved across his face.

Rocco Bellaro.

"Greetings to my loyal brothers and soldiers," Rocco said smoothly into the camera, leaning back in his chair. "If you are watching this, my traitorous brother Dante has survived the initial purge. But I assure you, his reign is officially over."

Rocco picked up a glass of scotch and held it up to the lens.

"Dante is weak. He has abandoned our family’s code to hide behind a civilian woman and a pathetic child. Therefore, as the new syndicate head, I am issuing a absolute command: Ten million dollars to the man who brings me Dante’s head. And fifty million dollars to whoever brings me his son, alive."

Rocco’s smile widened into something demonic.

"And as for the brave little nurse trying to patch my brother back together... I have a special prize for you, Dr. Clara Miller. Every hitman, gang, and syndicate from Chicago to New York now has your face and your blood type. Run all you want, little doctor. The world just became your graveyard."

The screen went black.

I sat frozen, the blood draining completely from my face. My breathing became rapid and shallow.