The night air outside the St. Louis emergency room tasted like ozone, wet asphalt, and raw copper. Inside, the antiseptic reek of bleach and panic hung heavy in the air, but I barely noticed it.

The enforcer was a mountain of a man named Boris—a Slavic brute with a jagged scar running from his right ear down to his thick collarbone. He held his chrome pistol with terrifyingly steady hands, his eyes locked on me with professional amusement.

“Well, well, well,” Boris rumbled, his voice like grinding stones echoing off the damp concrete walls. “Ethan Cole, playing the white knight. Viktor sends his regards, Ethan. He said if you interfere with our collateral collection on the Mercer property, you go down with the sinking ship.”

Lena gasped behind me, clutching the torn fabric of my sleeve. “Ethan, watch out—he’s got a silencer on that barrel.”

“I see it, Lena,” I said quietly, never breaking eye contact with Boris. My breathing was slow, measured, and completely detached from the sudden spike of adrenaline. In my line of work, you don't survive by panicking; you survive by outthinking the man across the gun.

“Drop the weapon, Ethan,” Boris sneered, taking a slow step forward. “You’re good with real estate, and you’re great at shaking down crooked politicians. But down here in the dark? You’re out of your depth.”

“Am I?” I asked, my lips curving into a cold, dangerous smile.

Boris frowned, hesitating for a fraction of a second. That fraction was all I needed.

From the dark stairwell directly behind Boris, a heavy tactical combat boot crunched loudly against loose gravel.

Before Boris could pivot, Vance stepped out of the shadows like a ghost, swinging the heavy steel butt of a tactical shotgun in a brutal, sweeping arc straight across the side of Boris’s skull.

CRACK.

The sound of fractured bone echoed through the basement. Boris’s eyes rolled back into his head, his pistol clattering uselessly against the concrete floor as his massive frame collapsed face-first into the dirt, completely unconscious.

Vance stepped over the fallen enforcer, casually ejecting a spent casing from his sidearm. “Sorry I’m late, boss. Had to secure the perimeter exits first. Didn't want any rats escaping into the storm.”

“Good work, Vance,” I said, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I holstered my weapon and turned back to Lena, who was shivering violently on the metal chair.

I shrugged off my soaked Italian suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders, wrapping her up to shield her from the freezing dampness of the basement.

“Can you walk?” I asked gently, extending my hand.

Lena looked up at me, her dark eyes shining with tears, relief, and an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. She placed her ice-cold hand in mine, and I pulled her to her feet. She leaned heavily against my shoulder, her legs barely supporting her weight.

“The baby...” Lena whispered, panic suddenly flaring back into her voice. “Rosie... is she okay? Derek said he was going to take her away if I didn't sign the transfer deeds—”

“Rosie is safe,” I interrupted firmly, wrapping my arm securely around her waist to support her weight as we walked toward the stairs. “Dr. Hayes has her stabilized at St. Jude’s. Lily brought her straight to me, exactly like you told her to.”

Lena stopped dead in her tracks, staring up at me in shock. “Lily made it? Through the storm?”

“She walked right into the ER, barefoot, carrying her sister like a little general,” I said, a rare, genuine smile touching my lips. “She’s tougher than both of us combined, Lena.”

Tears spilled over Lena’s eyelashes, cutting clean tracks through the grime and dust on her cheeks. She let out a long, shuddering sob of pure relief.

“Thank God,” she whispered against my shoulder. “Thank God.”

We made it out of the subterranean cold-storage room and climbed the concrete stairs into the main warehouse floor, where Vance’s tactical team had already rounded up two of Viktor’s remaining local thugs, zip-tying them neatly beside the exit doors.