I had spent twenty-two years building a reputation that made powerful men lower their voices when I entered a room. Then I found a little girl sleeping beside two dumpsters with a starving dog guarding her—and when she told me her father had ordered her to find “the man this city fears,” I realized she hadn’t ended up in my path by accident.

The suite on the fortieth floor of the St. Regis Hotel commanded a stunning view of Lake Michigan, wrapped in the blue haze of the winter twilight.

Julian Vance sat on a leather sofa, his expensive designer jacket tossed over the armrest, clutching a glass of straight bourbon with trembling fingers. He was thirty-five, sharp-featured, and accustomed to the soft luxuries of a second-generation mobster who had never had to bleed for his position.

Four of his personal bodyguards stood near the door, their hands nervously hovering near their jackets.

The heavy suite door swung open.

I stepped into the room alone, wearing my dark suit, hands tucked casually into my trousers pockets. Behind me, the hallway was silent, though I knew Michael and six armed operatives were positioned at every fire exit and elevator shaft.

Julian stood up so fast he nearly spilled his drink.

"Vincent," Julian stammered, trying to maintain an air of aristocratic composure. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the icy lake, completely ignoring his offered hand.

"You have five minutes, Julian," I said flatly without turning around. "Make them count."

Julian cleared his throat nervously. "My father has lost his mind, Vincent. He’s sick. The cancer has metastasized to his brain. He became obsessed with Gabriel... obsessed with erasing the past before he dies. I had nothing to do with the fire on 14th Street! I swear to God, I didn't know he was going after the kid!"

I turned around slowly, my eyes locking onto Julian’s pale face with crushing weight.

"You knew," I stated quietly. "You signed the transfer authorizations for the tactical gear your hitmen used last night."

Julian’s face drained of color. "I... I was just following orders! He’s my father!"

"Your father is a dying animal who dragged my family into his grave," I said, stepping closer until I was standing right in front of him. "And you are the coward who helped him hand out the matches."

"I can give you his personal bunker codes!" Julian pleaded, reaching into his jacket to pull out a encrypted USB drive. "He’s hiding in the subterranean level of the Oak Park house! He has thirty mercs with him! You go in blind, you’ll lose twenty men! Take the drive, let me take my private jet to Nassau, and you can have Marcus on a silver platter!"

I reached out and took the USB drive from his shaking fingers.

"A reasonable offer," I murmured, holding the drive up to the light.

Julian let out a massive sigh of relief, a smug, relieved smile starting to creep onto his lips. "I knew we could do business, Vincent. After all, we’re men of the modern world. We don't need these old blood feuds—"

Before he could finish the sentence, I stepped forward, grabbed Julian by his lapels, and slammed him hard against the plate-glass window.

His bodyguards instantly drew their handguns—but before they could raise them, the suite’s double doors were kicked open, and Michael’s strike team flooded the room with silenced rifles aimed directly at the guards' heads.

"Drop them!" Michael commanded.

The bodyguards wisely dropped their weapons onto the thick carpet.

Julian gasped for air, his eyes wide with absolute panic as he stared into my face, inches away from his own.

"You thought you could buy your life with a flash drive, Julian?" I whispered, my voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "You helped hunt a child. You helped murder my brother."

"You... you promised safe passage!" Julian choked out.

"I didn't promise anything," I replied softly.

I turned my head slightly. "Michael."

"Yes, Boss?"

"Hand Julian over to the federal agents waiting downstairs. Tell them Mr. Vance would like to confess to twenty-two counts of interstate extortion, grand arson, and conspiracy to commit murder."

Julian’s eyes widened in horror. A federal conviction meant a lifetime in a maximum-security prison—a far worse fate for a soft man like Julian than a quick bullet in a hotel room.