His fingers closed around my daughter’s hand. I called the nurse before his guards could move. Then the comatose man opened his eyes and whispered, “Sofia.”

The freight elevator rattled violently as it descended through the dark concrete shaft, plummeting toward the sub-basement level of St. Adrian’s Hospital.

Inside the cramped steel cab, the air was thick with tension. The portable heart monitor attached to Dario’s gurney beeped in a rapid, irregular rhythm: Beep-beep... beep-beep...

Dr. Whitmore was frantically adjusting the oxygen flow valve, his hands covered in sweat. "His blood pressure is spiking! 180 over 110! If he suffers a stroke in this elevator, there's nothing I can do!"

"Keep him stabilized, Doctor!" Marco barked, racking the slide of his Glock, checking the remaining rounds in his magazine. "We have about forty seconds before Vincent’s crew overrides the elevator controls from the main security desk."

I stood at the head of the gurney, holding Dario’s hand tight. His grip hadn't loosened. Even in his semi-conscious state, the residual instinct of a man who had spent forty years surviving violent storms was keeping him anchored to reality.

"Where are we taking him?" I asked Marco over the metallic grinding of the elevator cables.

"Kane Development has a private medical safehouse in Oak Park," Marco said, his eyes fixed on the floor indicator display as the red numbers ticked down: 3... 2... 1... B2. "Fully equipped ICU suite, private doctors who answer only to Dario. If we can get him into my armored SUV in the lower loading dock, we can be there in twenty minutes."

DING.

The heavy steel doors of the freight elevator slid open.

The sub-basement loading dock was a vast, cavernous space filled with concrete pillars, industrial trash compactors, and rows of parked supply trucks. Dim yellow safety lights hung from the low ceiling, casting long, menacing shadows across the damp floor.

Parked fifty feet away near the exit ramp was Marco’s black armored Suburban.

"Clear," Marco whispered, stepping out of the lift with his weapon raised, sweeping the dark pillars with his tactical light. "Move fast."

Dr. Whitmore and I grabbed the metal handles of the gurney, pushing it rapidly across the concrete floor toward the rear of the SUV.

Before we reached the vehicle, a sharp BANG shattered the quiet of the underground garage.

A high-caliber bullet struck the concrete pillar inches above my head, showering us with stone dust and sparks.

"DOWN!" Marco screamed, shoving Dr. Whitmore and me behind the rear bumper of a parked laundry truck.

From behind the concrete pillars near the exit ramp, four men stepped into the dim light, holding suppressed automatic pistols.

Leading them was Vincent Kane.

He was wearing his tailored navy coat, leaning lightly on his gold-topped walking cane, a cold, triumphant smile twisting his sharp features.

"Did you really think it would be that easy, Marco?" Vincent’s voice echoed off the concrete walls, smooth, cold, and arrogant. "I built this hospital's security network five years ago. I know every elevator shaft, every service corridor, every rat hole in this building."

Marco leaned out from behind the laundry truck, firing three rapid shots: THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

One of Vincent’s guards grunted, dropping to the floor as a bullet caught him in the shoulder. The other three guards immediately laid down a hail of suppressed gunfire, heavy rounds thumping against the metal side of the laundry truck, tearing through the thin metal panels.

"Give it up, Marco!" Vincent called out over the gunfire. "You're fighting for a corpse! Look at him! He's a hollow shell! He can't run the family! He can't even stand!"

I crouched beside the gurney, shielding Dario’s head with my own body as glass and metal debris rained down around us.

Dario’s eyes were wide open now.

The fog of the coma was burning away under the raw surge of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. He looked at the dim yellow lights, he looked at the blood on Marco’s shoulder, he looked at me.

His lips moved. "Vin... cent..." he rasped, the word thick with dark, ancient venom.

"He's right there, Mr. Kane," I whispered in his ear, pointing toward the shadow near the exit ramp. "He tried to kill you. He sent a sniper to my daughter's window. He's destroying everything you built."

Dario’s gray eyes locked onto mine.

In that fraction of a second, I didn't see a sick, dying patient. I saw the legendary kingpin of Chicago’s underground—a man who had survived three decades of betrayal, federal indictments, and gang wars through sheer, unyielding force of will.

Dario reached out, his heavy hand grabbing the iron framework of the gurney.

With a slow, agonizing effort that made the muscles in his neck strain until the veins looked like thick ropes, Dario Kane sat up.

Dr. Whitmore gasped. "Mr. Kane! No! Your heart!"

Dario ignored him entirely. He reached into his hospital gown, tearing off the heart monitor sensors glued to his chest, throwing them onto the floor.

He looked at Marco, who was pinned behind the wheel of the laundry truck, low on ammunition.

"Marco," Dario’s voice came out—no longer a raspy whisper, but a deep, resonant growl that vibrated through the concrete floor.

Marco spun around, his mouth agape as he saw his boss sitting bolt upright on the gurney, his gray eyes burning like hot iron.

"Boss?!" Marco choked out.

"The... emergency... shutoff..." Dario grunted, pointing his trembling finger toward a red electrical box mounted on the concrete pillar directly behind Vincent’s position. "Hit... the main breaker..."

Marco didn't hesitate. He leaned out from behind the truck, raised his pistol, and fired his last two rounds straight into the glass casing of the red electrical box thirty feet away.