Six hours before anyone expected me home, I walked into my Long Island mansion with a loaded gun under my coat

The hallway was filled with thick grey smoke from the security charges Prescott’s men had set off near the main foyer.

Emergency red backup lights flashed along the ceiling, painting the marble floors in a terrifying crimson glow.

I moved through the smoke like a ghost, the submachine gun held tight against my shoulder. I was no longer just a businessman in a tailored suit. I was the man who had built an empire on blood and iron, and every instinct that had kept me alive on the streets of New York was wide awake.

I found the third guard near the grand staircase, trying to reload his weapon with trembling hands.

I stepped out of the shadow behind him, pressed the barrel of my gun against his spine, and pulled the trigger. He collapsed down the marble stairs without a sound.

"Prescott!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the two-story ceilings. "You left your men to die, just like you left Isabelle!"

From the upper balcony, a shot rang out. The bullet bit into the plaster two inches from my ear.

I ducked behind the grand piano, looking up through the red smoke.

Prescott stood near the top of the stairs, his face slick with sweat, his tailored suit jacket torn. He was holding a heavy black suitcase—the master encryption drive that held access to all my offshore accounts and private records.

"You were always too soft, Dominic!" Prescott yelled down from the balcony, his voice laced with manic panic. "You loved that woman more than the business! You let her soft heart ruin our profit margins!"

"She was better than you'll ever be!" I roared, firing a three-round burst that shattered the wooden banister near his feet.

Prescott stumbled back, dropping the suitcase. He turned and ran down the upper west corridor toward the master bedroom suite.

He was heading for the private helipad on the roof.

I sprinted up the stairs, taking them three at a time, my lungs burning, my heart pounding with a murderous rage that had been building for four hundred days.

The west corridor was quiet, dark, and smelled of gunsmoke.

I walked slowly down the hallway, past the closed guest bedrooms, my weapon raised.

At the end of the hall, the door to the master suite stood slightly ajar.

I kicked the door open and rolled inside, taking cover behind a heavy mahogany wardrobe.

Silence.

The master bedroom was empty. The French doors leading out to the balcony were wide open, the cold winter wind howling through the room, blowing the white silk curtains around like ghosts.

I stepped out onto the balcony.

Prescott was standing near the iron spiral staircase that led to the roof. He had a secondary weapon drawn—a small, snub-nosed revolver.

When he saw me, he didn't shoot. He smiled—a bitter, pathetic grin.

"It's over, Dominic," Prescott said, backing toward the spiral stairs. "The feds are already on their way. I called them ten minutes ago. They think you've executed your staff. You'll spend the rest of your life in a supermax facility."

"The feds don't scare me, Prescott," I said, walking toward him step by step, setting the empty MP5 down on the stone floor. "And you know why?"

"Why?" he sneered, raising the revolver.