"A homeless seven-year-old girl found me crying alone in the freezing Chicago rain and offered me the last piece of bread she had. “Mister, are you crying because you're hungry too?” She had no idea men across the city feared my name, or that I'd trade every dollar, every business, and every ounce of power I possessed for the one thing I couldn't buy back: my son.

The emergency session of the Chicago Mafia Council was held in a windowless subterranean bunker beneath a historic steakhouse in the Loop. The air was thick with the smoke of expensive cigars and palpable tension. Four elderly men—heads of the dominant Italian and Irish syndicates—sat around a polished mahogany table.

At the head of the table sat Don Falcone, swirling amber whiskey in a crystal glass, a smug smile plastered across his wrinkled face.

The heavy steel doors slammed open with a deafening bang.

Every head snapped toward the entrance. I walked in slowly, my trench coat billowing behind me, flanked by Marcus and twelve armed enforcers who lined the perimeter of the room with assault rifles raised.

"Sebastian," Falcone chuckled, raising his glass. "We didn't expect you to RSVP. Especially after receiving our little invitation."

I walked straight up to the mahogany table, pulled Victor’s bloodied signet ring from my pocket, and slammed it down onto the polished wood. The heavy metal clattered loudly, startling the old men.

"Victor sends his regards," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Or rather, he would, if he wasn't currently tied to a chair in my basement answering questions about your little coup."

Falcone's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered his composure. "You're delusional, boy. You've lost your mind because your wife ran off with another man and took your brat."

"My wife didn't run off," I snarled, slamming my hands onto the table and leaning over it until my face was inches from Falcone's. "She was kidnapped by your men to blackmail me into stepping down from the syndicate. And my son was locked in a freezing freight yard while you sat here playing god."

"And what if we did?" an Irish syndicate boss named O'Malley shouted, standing up and reaching for his jacket holster. "You think you can take on all of us, Ross? Your empire is built on our permission!"

Before O'Malley could clear his holster, Marcus’s rifle discharged into the ceiling, raining plaster and wood chips down onto the table. The council members flinched, gasping in terror.

"Try it again, O'Malley, and I'll paint this room with your brains," Marcus said coldly.

I straightened my jacket, looking directly at Falcone. "I'm not here to negotiate with rats. I'm here to give you a choice. Tell me where Lucas and Julianna are right now, or I dismantle every single asset, casino, and shipping lane you own before the sun comes up."

Falcone’s eyes flashed with pure malice. He pressed a hidden button beneath the armrest of his chair.

"You're too late, Sebastian," Falcone whispered, smiling wickedly. "The warehouse on Pier 42 is already rigged. The moment my men see your car approach, the timer starts."

Suddenly, the heavy steel doors behind us slammed shut and automatic deadbolts clicked into place. Sirens began wailing through the bunker.