At eight o’clock on a Tuesday morning, Damian Russo walked into his Tribeca headquarters and stopped cold.

Rain lashed against the windshield of the armored SUV as Damian's convoy sped through the dark, industrial streets of Red Hook. The rusted brick buildings and abandoned docks looked like giant, forgotten specters against the gray storm sky.

"The building is clear of civilian traffic," Leo reported from the passenger seat, looking at a thermal scanner tablet. "We're picking up three heat signatures inside the main bay."

"Only three?" Damian frowned, his sharp tactical mind sensing an anomaly. "Julian wouldn't keep her guarded by only three men. He knows how I operate."

"Could be a decoy, Boss," Leo said softly.

"We breach anyway," Damian said coldly. "If Frankie is in there, he knows where she is."

The heavy iron doors of the meatpacking plant were kicked open with a thunderous bang. Damian's strike team moved in tight tactical formation, their weapon lights cutting through the thick, damp fog hanging inside the concrete facility.

Rusted meat hooks swayed from the ceiling like pendulum blades. The air smelled of salt, old copper, and wet decay.

In the center of the vast, open room, tied to a wooden chair beneath a single flickering lightbulb, sat a figure with a black canvas bag pulled over their head.

Damian's heart stopped. "Khloe!"

He broke formation, sprinting across the slick concrete floor. "Khloe, I'm here!"

He reached the chair, dropping his gun into its holster, and yanked the black hood off the hostage's head.

It wasn't Khloe.

It was Frankie "The Needle"—beaten, bloodied, with duct tape secured tightly over his mouth.

Frankie's eyes were wide with frantic, hysterically terrified warnings. He shook his head frantically, pointing down at his chest with his chin.

Damian looked down. Strapped to Frankie's chest was a digital timer counting down from fifteen seconds. Below the LED display was a small speaker.

A static hiss echoed from the speaker, followed by a raspy, taunting laugh that Damian had heard in his nightmares for four years.

"Hello, Damian," Julian Vance's voice sneered through the speaker. "Did you really think it would be that easy? Did you think I'd leave your little prize in a dump like this?"

"Where is she, Julian?!" Damian roared, grabbing Frankie by the shoulders, trying to trace the wiring of the explosive.

"She's somewhere cold, Damian," Julian chuckled softly. "Somewhere deep. Somewhere where no one can hear her bleed. You were too late four years ago when you tried to take my empire, and you're too late today. Enjoy the fireworks, little boss."

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. The timer hit five seconds.