That was the record. Most caretakers lasted exactly 72 hours inside the Graham estate before fleeing through its iron

The Foundry was an abandoned ironworks facility on the edge of the industrial district. Rusting steel girders rose into the stormy night sky like the ribs of a dead leviathan. The ground was covered in gravel, broken glass, and deep puddles of dark water.

Four black sedans belonging to the Rossi family were parked in a semi-circle inside the massive, cavernous warehouse. Spotlights mounted on the concrete pillars cast harsh white light across the center of the room.

When the Graham estate's armored SUVs pulled inside, the echo of their engines sounded like thunder against the corrugated metal walls.

Victor stepped out first, his hand resting conspicuously near his shoulder holster. Two guards followed, sweeping the high rafters with tactical flashlights. Then, the hydraulic lift at the rear of Declan's SUV lowered.

Narin pushed Declan’s wheelchair down the metal ramp. The rubber wheels crunched softly against the gravel floor. She wore a simple black coat Mrs. Gibson had lent her, her face calm, her posture straight.

In the center of the warehouse stood Don Carmine Rossi.

Rossi was in his late fifties, thick-necked, wearing a pinstriped suit and a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand. Surrounding him were eight heavily armed men, their jackets unbuttoned, their hands hovering near their belts.

When Rossi saw Declan rolling forward in a wheelchair, a wide, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Declan Graham," Rossi boomed, his voice echoing off the iron beams above. "Look at you! The legendary ghost of the East Wing finally comes out to play!"

Declan did not smile. He sat perfectly upright in his chair, his hands resting casually on his armrests. Beside him stood Narin, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.

"You called a sit-down, Carmine," Declan said, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the space. "Make it quick. I have better things to do than stand around in a drafty warehouse."

Rossi’s smile faltered slightly at Declan’s complete lack of deference. He took two steps forward, his heavy leather shoes crunching on the gravel. He looked past Declan, his eyes landing on Narin.

"Who’s the girl?" Rossi sneered. "A nurse to change your diapers?"

Rossi’s men let out a chorus of rough, cruel laughter.

Victor stepped forward, his face turning red with rage, but Declan raised a single finger. Victor instantly stopped.

Narin didn't flinch. She looked Rossi dead in the eye, her voice clear and unnervingly quiet. "I’m the person who cleans up his mess. And judging by the state of your shoes, Don Rossi, you could use someone to clean up yours."

The laughter from Rossi’s men cut off instantly.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as he glared at Narin. "You’ve got a brave maid, Declan."

"She’s accurate," Declan replied coolly. "Now, let’s talk business. You intercepted my shipping containers at Pier 4. You put two of my men in the hospital. I burned your Fifth Street warehouse. We’re even."

"Even?" Rossi spat, taking another step forward. "That warehouse was worth three million dollars! You think you can hide behind your gates, send your lapdogs to burn my property, and call it even?!"

"You crossed the border line first, Carmine," Declan said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of Narin’s neck stand up. "You mistook my absence from the streets for weakness. I am giving you one chance to walk out of this warehouse with your territory intact. You sign the harbor agreement, you pull your men back to the south side, and we go back to business."

Rossi let out a harsh laugh. He reached into his coat pocket.

Instantly, Victor and the Graham guards raised their weapons. Rossi’s eight men drew their handguns in unison. The metallic clicks of fifteen handguns being cocked echoed simultaneously through the empty building.

The tension in the warehouse snapped like a high-tension cable. One wrong breath, one twitch of a finger, and the room would turn into a slaughterhouse.

Rossi slowly pulled a cigar from his pocket, holding it up to show he wasn't pulling a weapon. He lit it with a gold Zippo lighter, blowing a thick cloud of blue smoke toward Declan.

"And what if I say no?" Rossi whispered, stepping closer until he was standing less than five feet from Declan's chair. "What if I decide to take the harbor right now? What are you going to do, Declan? Stand up and stop me?"

Rossi leaned down, bringing his face level with Declan's. "You're a cripple, Graham. Your empire is dying, and everybody knows it."

Narin felt a surge of cold adrenaline shoot through her veins. She glanced at Declan.

Declan didn't reach for a gun. He didn't look at Victor.

Instead, Declan reached out with a motion so impossibly fast it blurred.

His left hand shot forward, gripping Rossi by the front of his silk tie, yanking the older mob boss down with terrifying physical strength. At the same time, Declan’s right hand whipped out from beneath his lap blanket, slamming a heavy silver daggers—the very daggers Narin had polished hours earlier—straight through Rossi’s expensive leather shoe, pinning Rossi’s foot directly to the wooden floorboards beneath the gravel.

Rossi let out a blood-curdling scream of agony!

"DON'T MOVE!" Victor roared, aiming his weapon directly at Rossi’s head.

Rossi’s men panicked, their guns shaking as they looked at their leader, who was currently pinned to the floor like a bug, screaming in pain, while Declan held him by his necktie, pulling Rossi’s face inches from his own.

"I don't need my legs to put a bullet in your head, Carmine," Declan growled into Rossi’s ear, his icy blue eyes burning with savage fury. "I am still the king of this city. If you ever mention my condition again, or if one of your men steps foot near my harbor, I won't target your warehouses. I will target you."

Declan shoved Rossi backward. Rossi fell hard onto his back, screaming as his pinned foot tore against the blade stuck in the floor.

"Get him out of here," Declan ordered calmly, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hand.

Rossi’s men rushed forward, frantically lifting their bleeding boss and dragging him toward their sedans. Within thirty seconds, the four Rossi vehicles slammed their doors, spun their tires on the gravel, and tore out of the warehouse, their taillights disappearing into the stormy night.

Silence returned to the Foundry.

Declan let out a long, ragged breath. The hand holding the handkerchief began to tremble slightly as the massive surge of adrenaline began to fade.

Narin stepped forward. She didn't say a word about the violent display. She simply reached down, grabbed the silver daggers sticking out of the floorboards, wiped the blood off against a discarded rag, and slipped it into her coat pocket.

Then she took her place behind his wheelchair.

"Home, Mr. Graham?" she asked quietly.