I HAD POWER, MONEY, AND MEN WHO WOULD KILL FOR ME, BUT NONE OF IT MATTERED WHEN MY WIFE ARRIVED ALONE AND BLEEDING—UNTIL I OPENED HER CRACKED PHONE AND DISCOVERED WHO SHE HAD BEEN MEETING.

Twenty minutes later, my Maybach tore up to the curb of a nondescript brownstone in Lincoln Park. The windows were dark, but a faint blue glow emanated from the second-floor bay window.

Victor and three of our heaviest enforcers materialized out of the rain beside my car, weapons drawn and ready.

“He’s inside?” I asked, stepping out into the freezing puddle.

“Confirmed,” Victor nodded, clicking the safety off his submachine gun. “The fiber-optic tap shows one primary target inside, plus two Moretti muscle-men guarding the stairs.”

“No hostages. No negotiations,” I said, drawing my SIG Sauer P226 and chambering a round. “Take the front. I’ll take the back.”

We moved with terrifying, synchronized speed.

The back glass door shattered silently under the butt of Victor’s tactical boot. We flooded into the dark kitchen like shadows. Two guards stationed in the hallway didn't even have time to draw their sidearms before two silenced cracks echoed through the narrow corridor, dropping them instantly to the hardwood floor.

I kicked open the door to the second-floor study.

There, sitting in front of a bank of glowing monitors downloading gigabytes of financial data onto a secure thumb drive, sat Julian Vance.

He spun around in his chair, his face turning the color of curdled milk as the barrel of my gun locked dead-center on his forehead.

“D-Dominic!” Julian stammered, throwing his hands up in surrender, knocking his coffee mug across the desk. “Don't shoot! I was forced! Moretti threatened my family!”

I walked slowly across the room, the metal of my gun never wavering an inch from his terrified eyes.

“You know, Julian,” I said, my voice dropping into a lethal whisper, “I let you walk away with your life six months ago because I believed in mercy.”