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.

The rain was hammering against the corrugated metal roof of the Goose Island warehouse like machine-gun fire. Inside, the cavernous space was thick with the scent of diesel fuel, damp concrete, and unwashed tension.

Forty of my top captains, lieutenants, and enforcers stood in a wide circle around the central loading dock. No one spoke. The air was charged with the kind of volatile energy that precedes a bomb blast.

I stood at the head of a massive mahogany table salvaged from one of our downtown offices, my sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint, dried traces of Clara’s blood still staining my cuffs.

Mateo clicked a remote, and a large digital map of Chicago flashed onto a projector screen against the back wall. The South Side—Moretti’s stronghold—glowed in a harsh, menacing red.

“Lorenzo Moretti thinks he can make a play for the North Side by eliminating my wife,” I said, my voice cutting through the cavernous silence with icy precision. “He thinks we’re fractured. He thinks because I spent the last year distracted by a useless parasite, the Valente syndicate has grown soft.”

I slammed my fist onto the table, the sharp thud echoing off the steel girders.

“Tonight, we prove them wrong. We don't negotiate. We don't demand explanations. We take everything.”

A low, guttural murmur of approval rippled through the gathered men. Weapons were checked, magazines slapped into place, and tactical vests adjusted.

“Phase One,” I continued, pointing to the red zone on the map. “We hit Moretti’s primary narcotics and financial clearinghouse: the abandoned grain elevator off 35th and Halsted. Burn it to the ground. Leave no survivors, and leave our calling card so Moretti knows exactly who brought the fire.”