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.

By 3:30 a.m., our three-car convoy of matte-black SUVs slipped past the heavily fortified security gates of Moretti’s private estate in the exclusive Beverly suburb of Chicago.

Moretti’s guards hadn't even had time to sound the alarm; our advance team had disabled their perimeter cameras and neutralized the gatehouse detail with silenced precision before they could reach their coffee cups.

I sat in the back of the lead vehicle, holding Clara’s wedding ring—which she had handed to me for safekeeping before surgery—tightly in my palm. The metal warmed against my skin, serving as a constant, burning reminder of why I was here.

This wasn't just a turf war anymore. This was retribution for an attempted assassination.

We disembarked in total silence. Twenty elite enforcers fanned out across the manicured lawns, blanketing the sprawling Mediterranean-style mansion like a shroud of death.

I walked up the grand marble steps of the front entrance. I didn't bother knocking or picking the lock. I raised my boot and kicked the heavy oak-and-iron double doors inward with a deafening crash that shook the dust from the crystal chandelier hanging in the grand foyer.

“Lorenzo!” I roared, my voice echoing through the opulent, silent halls. “Wake up, old man! Your time is up!”

Within seconds, the interior lights flickered on. Half a dozen of Moretti’s elite bodyguards came barreling down the sweeping staircase, submachine guns raised.

They didn't even get their safety catches off.

Victor and my men formed a wall of lead and fire, cutting down the staircase in a brief, brutal exchange of gunfire. The bodies tumbled down the polished marble steps, leaving streaks of dark crimson across the pristine white stone.