Blood on polished marble had never made Jonah Pierce lose his appetite. For fifteen years, men had whispered his name across New York like a warning.

The rain had returned, sweeping across the dark waters of the East River in icy sheets. At Pier 42 in Brooklyn, three black sedans were parked in a semi-circle inside an abandoned shipping warehouse.

Sal Falcone—a heavy-set, grey-haired man in his late fifties wearing an expensive leather trench coat—stood near the edge of the dock, surrounded by six armed enforcers. Standing right beside him was Mark Keller, Dean’s older brother, a rough-looking man with furious eyes.

The sound of heavy engines echoed through the warehouse as Jonah Pierce’s convoy pulled inside. Four black SUVs came to a stop fifty feet away.

Jonah stepped out from the back seat of the lead vehicle. He wore a long dark overcoat, walking completely unbothered through the pouring rain. Behind him, Wyatt and ten heavily armed security operatives stepped out, taking defensive positions.

“Jonah!” Falcone called out, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. “You brought a whole army just for a conversation?”

“I brought what was necessary, Sal,” Jonah replied smoothly, stopping ten paces away. “You requested a sit-down regarding Dean Keller.”

Mark Keller stepped forward, pointing an angry finger at Jonah. “Where’s my brother, Pierce?! What did you do to him?!”

Jonah didn't even look at Mark. He kept his eyes locked firmly on Sal Falcone. “Your boy Dean shorted my interest payment by ten thousand dollars. He’s been skimming from my territory for eight months. And to cover his tracks, he physically abused a woman under my protection and sent her to my restaurant as a human shield.”

Sal Falcone frowned, flicking his cigar ash onto the damp floor. “Look, Jonah... Mark here is one of my best earners. Dean is his blood. Whatever money Dean owes you, Mark will cover it out of his cut next week. As for the girl... she’s just a neighborhood chick. Dean’s girl. It ain't your place to get sentimental over a broad.”

A deadly, freezing silence descended upon the warehouse.

Wyatt shifted his grip on his concealed firearm, knowing that Falcone had just crossed a fatal line.

Jonah took two slow steps toward Falcone. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, carrying a chilling authority that made even Falcone’s bodyguards look visibly uncomfortable.

“Sal,” Jonah said quietly. “You’ve known me for twelve years. Have you ever known me to break my word?”

Falcone swallowed hard, his posture stiffening slightly. “No.”

“Then hear my word clearly right now,” Jonah continued, his eyes burning like black iron. “Dean Keller is currently locked in a basement cell. He will sign over every property, every car, and every cent he owns to clear his debt to my firm. After that, he will be banished from the state of New York forever.”

Mark Keller snapped. “You can't do that to my brother!” He reached for the hand gun concealed beneath his jacket.

Before Mark’s hand could even clear his belt, Jonah pulled a sleek black pistol from inside his coat and fired two precise shots.

BANG! BANG!

Mark collapsed onto the concrete floor with two non-lethal bullets placed perfectly through both of his kneecaps. He shrieked in agony, thrashing on the ground as blood pooled around his legs.

Falcone’s bodyguards instantly raised their weapons, but Wyatt and Jonah’s ten men racked their submachine guns simultaneously, pointing twelve laser sights directly at Sal Falcone’s chest.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Falcone screamed frantically at his men, raising his hands in sheer terror. “DON'T SHOOT!”

Jonah lowered his weapon smoothly, stepping over Mark Keller’s writhing body until he was standing inches away from Sal Falcone.

“Mark lives because I respect our past history, Sal,” Jonah whispered coldly, staring into the old mob boss’s trembling eyes. “Take him to a hospital. Tell him that if he or his brother ever mention Stella Hayes’s name again, I will burn down everything you own, and I will start with you. Is that clear?”