As housemaid Nell Bennett assisted six-year-old Archie in tying a ribbon around a gift in the grand drawing room, Celine Rowe turned beside the gilded mirror, admiring her emerald satin evening gown. The little boy looked at Celine with pride and declared, “Auntie, Mommy bought your princess dress!”

The midnight wind sweeping off Lake Michigan was biting, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of saltwater and diesel exhaust across the sprawling concrete expanse of Berth 4. The shipping docks were completely dead, shrouded in deep shadows cast by towering gantry cranes and stacked intermodal containers.

A sleek black cargo van slipped silently through the perimeter gate, its headlights completely extinguished. It rolled to a halt beside an open shipping container filled with high-end electronics and luxury goods—the exact bait Dorian had planted.

Five masked men clad in tactical gear tumbled out of the van, weapons raised, scanning the empty docks with paranoid tension. Their leader, a scarred veteran enforcer named Marcus sent directly from the New York syndicate, spat on the concrete.

“Too easy,” Marcus muttered into his comm-link, his voice raspy. “Westbrook’s men are spread thin. Move in, load the crates onto the van, and let’s burn this whole sector before their patrols catch wind.”

The mercenaries rushed toward the container, frantically hooking up winches and tossing heavy crates into the back of the vehicle. They believed they were executing a brilliant raid on a weakened empire. They had no idea they were already walking inside a steel cage.

High above them, perched on the catwalk of a gantry crane fifty feet in the air, Dorian stood motionless against the freezing wind. Through his high-powered thermal binoculars, he watched every move the intruders made. Behind him, Viktor and a dozen silent snipers waited with their weapons zeroed in on the exact coordinates below.

“They’ve secured the bait, boss,” Viktor whispered, his breath pluming in the freezing air. “Perimeter is fully locked. Coast Guard cutters have blocked the water escape. They’re entirely ours.”

Dorian lowered the binoculars, his face carved from stone. He lifted his tactical radio to his lips.

“Cut the lights,” Dorian ordered quietly.

*Click.*

Instantly, every floodlight across Berth 4 plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Down on the tarmac, the mercenaries froze. Shouts of alarm echoed across the open concrete as flashlights flickered on, cutting erratic beams through the dark.

“Ambush!” Marcus roared, leveling his assault rifle. “Fall back to the van! Fall back—”