The temperature inside the black SUV dropped as Enzo Marchetti slammed the door shut, locking it with a sharp click that resonated through the cabin.

The Krovnikov social club operated out of a converted meatpacking warehouse on the industrial fringe of the harbor district. By midnight, the windows of the second-floor office glowed yellow through grease-stained glass, and the dull, rhythmic thumping of heavy bass music vibrated through the concrete foundations.

Enzo Marchetti didn't knock.

He didn't need to. Two Russian enforcers standing guard by the sliding loading bay doors barely had time to register the shadow detaching itself from the rain-slicked pavement before Enzo’s silenced pistol cleared leather. Two suppressed coughs echoed in the damp night air, and both men dropped silently into the puddles, folding like cheap laundry.

Enzo stepped over them, wiping his boots on the concrete floor as he walked into the cavernous loading bay.

The warehouse smelled of stale beer, raw meat, and cheap tobacco. A rusted freight elevator sat at the far end, its cable groaning in the draft. Enzo ignored it, taking the iron service stairs instead, his heavy boots ringing out with deliberate, echoing steps that climbed toward the second-floor offices like a metronome of doom.

By the time he reached the heavy oak double doors marked PRIVATE, the music upstairs had cut out. Someone inside had realized the guards downstairs weren't answering their radios.

Enzo didn't bother drawing a weapon this time. He raised his right boot and kicked the center of the double doors with enough force to shatter the reinforced latches.

The doors flew inward, crashing against the interior walls with a sound like a small explosion.

Inside, four men scrambled. Two reached for submachine guns resting on a poker table scattered with chips and cash. A third, sitting behind a mahogany desk with a whiskey glass in his hand, froze instantly.

Viktor Krovnikov.

Viktor was a thick-necked brute with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone, wearing an expensive silk shirt unbuttoned to show a forest of graying chest hair. His eyes widened in genuine disbelief as he looked at the lone man standing in his doorway.

"Marchetti?" Viktor spat, his voice thick with a guttural Russian accent. "You must be out of your mind, walking in here alone. My boys downstairs—"

"Your boys downstairs are currently taking a very long nap," Enzo interrupted, his voice smooth, unhurried, and carrying a terrifying weight. He walked slowly into the room, his hands sliding casually into his trouser pockets.

The two enforcers with the submachine guns raised their barrels, aiming straight for Enzo’s chest.

"Do it," Enzo whispered, not even blinking. "Pull the trigger. And find out exactly how long it takes for my fifty men currently surrounding this warehouse to burn this entire block to cinders with you inside it."

The enforcers hesitated, their eyes darting nervously toward Viktor.

"Wait," Viktor barked, holding up a manicured hand. He forced a hard, yellow-toothed smile, standing up slowly from his leather chair. "Relax, boys. Put the iron away. Mr. Marchetti is a respectable businessman. We don't need a war over... whatever misunderstanding brings him to our humble establishment at midnight."

"Misunderstanding," Enzo repeated, the word tasting like poison. He stopped ten feet from the desk, his dark eyes locking onto Viktor’s face. "You sent three men to a brownstone on Euclid Avenue tonight. They roughed up a woman. They terrified a seven-year-old child."

Viktor’s face didn't twitch, but a micro-second flicker in his eyes betrayed him. He recovered quickly, spreading his hands in a gesture of absolute innocence. "My friend, I have no idea what you are talking about. Women? Children? We are businessmen, not thugs. Perhaps someone else has a grudge—"

Enzo didn't let him finish. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the heavy silver cufflink he’d found on Claire’s bedroom floor, and tossed it across the mahogany desk. It skidded across the felt layout of the poker table before clinking sharply against Viktor’s half-empty whiskey glass, tipping it over. Dark amber liquid spilled across the papers.

Viktor stared down at the monogrammed cufflink. The color drained entirely from his face.

"V.K.," Enzo said softly, leaning forward over the desk, his knuckles resting on the polished wood. "Viktor Krovnikov. Initialed by your private tailor in Brighton Beach. Unless you have an identical twin who likes breaking into houses to beat up single mothers while they're getting dressed for a date."

The silence in the room became absolute. The two enforcers exchange glances, reading the death sentence written across their boss's expression.

"She was supposed to be mine," Viktor hissed, his voice dropping all pretense of innocence as his face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly rage. "She’s the niece of that old judge who’s been blocking our import licenses at the port. We wanted to send a message. Make her understand that cooperation is healthier."