A seven-year-old boy stopped me outside school and asked me to walk him home because “nobody believes me.” He had no idea I was Dante Moretti—known in certain circles as “The Wolf,” the man who controlled half the city’s underground empire—but when he opened his front door, I recognized something inside that house connected to a betrayal my organization had been hunting for years.

The air inside the underground coal tunnels was thick with decades of stagnant water, rust, and coal dust.

I moved through the darkness wearing night-vision goggles, my boots stepping silently through two inches of black sludge. The silence was absolute, save for the rhythmic drip of water from the arched brick ceiling.

Every step brought back memories of my early days in the syndicate. My father had trained me in tunnels like these, teaching me that power wasn't about the size of your house or the number of men behind you—it was about control. Knowing every brick, every shadow, every flaw in your enemy’s armor.

After ten minutes of silent marching, I reached the vertical iron ladder leading up into Silo Three.

I listened carefully through the rusted iron hatch above my head. The muffled sound of heavy gunfire suddenly erupted in the distance.

Vincent had initiated the breach at the northern gate.

Shouts echoed through the steel structure above me as Marco’s mercenaries rushed toward the northern catwalks to reinforce their perimeter.

I pushed the iron hatch open millimeter by millimeter. The air up here smelled of dry grain dust and copper. I pulled myself up into the narrow maintenance corridor behind the main storage bins.

Two guards wearing black tactical gear stood near the doorway of the central control room, their rifles pointed down the main corridor.

I didn't use my rifle. I pulled my silver-handled trench knife from my boot.

I moved like a ghost across the metal grating. Before the first guard could turn his head, I drove the blade under his jaw, catching his weight as he collapsed, and drove my elbow into the second guard's throat, shattering his windpipe in a single fluid motion.

I lowered both bodies silently to the floor.

I stepped up to the reinforced steel door of the control room. Through the small reinforced glass window, I saw young Owen Keller.

He was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the room, his small shoes dangling inches above the floor. His eyes were wide with fear, but he wasn't crying. Beside him sat a timer attached to a black radio receiver resting on a console desk.

Standing over him was Arthur Vance—Marco’s co-conspirator, a middle-aged man in an expensive Italian suit that looked absurdly out of place in the industrial wasteland.

"Where is he?" Arthur was yelling into his satellite phone, pacing back and forth across the room. "What do you mean Moretti breached the north gate? He was supposed to come through the front!"

I turned the door handle slowly. The lock had been cut from the outside.

I kicked the steel door open with enough force to send it slamming off its frame.

Arthur Vance spun around, reaching for his sidearm—but I was across the room before he could clear his holster. I grabbed his throat with my left hand, smashing him back against the steel console until the glass monitors shattered behind his head.

"Dante!" Owen gasped from his chair, a tiny beam of hope lighting up his face. "You came!"

"I told you I don't make promises lightly, Owen," I said without looking away from Arthur Vance’s bloodied face.

Arthur choked, his hands clawing at my gloved fingers. "Dante... please... Marco made the deal with the Russians... I was just managing the finances..."

"Where is Marco?" I growled, tightening my grip until his eyes bulged.

"He... he’s in the main processing tower..." Arthur wheezed out. "He has... he has the demolition charges wired to the entire facility... if he loses... he’s blowing the silos..."

I slammed Arthur’s head back against the broken console, knocking him unconscious, and pulled my knife to slice through the heavy ropes binding Owen’s wrists and ankles.

The boy threw his small arms around my neck the second he was free. He was trembling, but he held on with surprising strength.

"Are you okay, son?" I asked, lifting him up into my arms.