34A barefoot eight-year-old boy walked straight through a wall of armed guards at a Manhattan gala, stopped in front of New York’s most feared mafia boss, and pointed at the legs doctors said would never move again.

The underground parking garage beneath the Central Park West building was cold, dim, and reeked of engine exhaust and damp concrete.

The security gate at the entrance had been forced open, its hydraulic arms bent at unnatural angles. Three black Escalades sat idling in the center lane, their headlights cutting through the gray gloom like twin blades.

Standing beside the central pillar was Marcus Vance—older than the senator, with thinning gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tailored gray trench coat that looked completely out of place in a parking garage. Two armed enforcers stood behind him, holding suppressed automatic rifles pointed at the floor.

"Charles," Marcus called out as I stepped out of the private elevator shaft. His voice echoed off the concrete pillars, dripping with venom. "I must admit, I didn't expect you to come down alone."

"I wanted to save the elevator ride back up," I replied, walking forward with a steady, unhurried stride. My boots clicked rhythmically against the floor. "And I wanted to make sure I could look you in the eye when I told you your brother is going to spend the rest of his life eating institutional food."

Marcus’s face twisted into an ugly snarl. "Robert was a fool. He let his ambition cloud his judgment. But you... you think you can just walk away from the table with billions of dollars and a miracle child, pretending you're a philanthropist?"

"I don't pretend anything, Marcus," I said, stopping twenty feet away from them.

"Hand over the boy," Marcus demanded, stepping forward, his enforcers raising their barrels. "The healing gift doesn't belong to a street rat, and it doesn't belong to a retired mob boss. The European council needs the boy. We can monetize what's in his blood, Charles. We can rule Zurich, Geneva, and Wall Street all over again."

"My father tried to build an empire on blood and cages," I said, my hand resting casually on the Kimber 1911 in my coat pocket. "And look where it left him. Buried in an unmarked grave with a pocket watch."

"Then you die with him!" Marcus screamed, waving his hand at his enforcers. "Kill him!"

The two men raised their weapons to fire—but before their fingers could squeeze the triggers, the lights in the parking garage went completely black.

Click.

Emergency red strobes flickered to life overhead. From the ventilation shafts above, Viktor dropped silently onto the hood of the center Escalade, his MP5 barking twice in rapid succession. Both enforcers collapsed instantly, their weapons clattering against the concrete.

Marcus froze, spinning around in panic as the red light bathed his terrified face. "What—who's there? Show yourselves!"

I walked up to him, stopping inches away. I didn't raise my gun. I simply reached out, grabbed the lapels of his expensive trench coat, and slammed him hard against the concrete pillar.

He let out a sharp gasp, his glasses sliding down his nose and shattering on the floor.

"Tell the council in Europe that the Whitmore name is dead," I whispered, my voice carrying the absolute, freezing weight of the underworld. "And if anyone ever knocks on my door again, I won't just break their legs. I'll bury them so deep the river won't even find them."

I released him. Marcus slid down the pillar, trembling violently, too terrified to speak, too broken to run.