Three bullets tore into my body because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old heir to New York’s most feared billionaire mafia family. Dominic Mercer watched me collapse while protecting his son—but seconds before I lost consciousness, someone in that ballroom whispered the real name I had spent eight years hiding, and suddenly I knew the shooting wasn’t only about Caleb.

The following night, a heavy, freezing fog rolled off the East River, wrapping the rusted industrial shipping yards of the Brooklyn docks in a thick, blinding gray veil.

Warehouse 14 was an abandoned, massive steel structure that had once stored grain. Now, it stood dark and cavernous against the black water, its rusty corrugated walls groaning softly in the cold river wind.

Inside, the warehouse was illuminated by four high-powered halogen floodlights set up on metal tripods, casting sharp, harsh shadows across the concrete floor.

A convoy of four black armored SUVs sat parked near the center of the warehouse, their engines idling in a deep, rhythmic hum.

Dominic Mercer stood near the hood of the lead SUV, wearing a long dark wool coat over a crisp black suit. Standing beside him were Marcus and eight of his elite tactical guards, armed with suppressed assault rifles, their eyes scanning the dark catwalks high above the floor.

I sat in the back seat of the lead SUV, wearing a bulletproof Kevlar vest beneath my dark jacket, holding a small tactical communicator in my ear.

Dominic reached through the open door, taking my hand and giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Stay in the vehicle until I give the signal, Evelyn. No matter what happens."

"Be careful, Dominic," I warned, my heart pounding in my chest. "Julian is a snake. He never attacks head-on."

"Neither do I," Dominic replied with a lethal smile, shutting the heavy armored door.

Two minutes later, the heavy iron side doors of the warehouse screeched open.

A dozen armed men dressed in dark tactical gear flooded into the building, taking up positions behind rusty shipping crates and concrete pillars.

And stepping out from behind them was Julian Sterling.

He looked immaculate, wearing a tailored gray coat, his golden hair slicked back, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. Beside him walked Viktor Volkov—a massive, scarred Russian man with a shaved head, holding a heavy automatic shotgun.

"Dominic Mercer!" Julian’s voice echoed through the cavernous warehouse, filled with greasy, theatrical arrogance. "I must admit, I was surprised when your private messenger reached out to me. The great Don of New York, coming to meet a humble fugitive in a rusty warehouse!"

Dominic didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets.

"You brought gunfires into my home, Sterling," Dominic said, his voice flat, emotionless, and colder than the river wind outside. "You put my son in danger. In my world, that means your life is forfeit."

Julian laughed—a sharp, shrill sound that rattled against the steel rafters.

"Your son is fine, Mercer!" Julian sneered, taking three paces forward, leaning on an iron cane. "I don't care about your little brat! I want the girl! I want Evelyn Vance, and I want the cold-storage drive she stole from my organization!"

"The drive is here," Dominic said smoothly, pulling the small silver thumb drive from his pocket and holding it up between two fingers under the bright glare of the halogen lights.

Julian’s eyes flared with intense, desperate greed. "Give it to me, Mercer! Give it to me, and I’ll take my men and leave your territory forever!"

"Come and get it," Dominic said flatly.

Julian narrowed his eyes, a sudden wave of suspicion crossing his face. "Where is she? Where is Evelyn?"

The rear door of the black SUV opened slowly.

I stepped out onto the cold concrete floor, my cane clicking against the stone, my chin held high, my dark eyes locked onto the man who had ordered the murder of my family eight years ago.

"I'm right here, Julian," I declared, my voice echoing clearly through the massive warehouse.

Julian stared at me, his cruel smile spreading wide across his face. "Look at you, Evelyn... dressed up like a mobster's queen. You look surprisingly good for a woman who took three bullets to the chest four days ago!"

"I survived your bullets eight years ago, Julian," I fired back, taking a step closer to Dominic’s side. "And I survived them four days ago. Your aim is as terrible as your legacy."