The porcelain cup trembled in Elena Cruz’s hands before it ever touched the mahogany desk.

The heavy oak doors of the master study on the second floor of the Lake Forest mansion didn't even slow Damian down as he blew the brass lock with a small, specialized thermal charge. The door blasted inward with a muffled thud, filling the room with the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder and ozone.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, lit only by the eerie blue glow of multiple computer monitors, was a man with stark white hair and cold, reptilian eyes that mirrored Lorenzo Moretti’s. Vincent Moretti did not look surprised. He simply picked up a crystal glass of amber bourbon, took a slow sip, and set it back down.

"Damian Reyes," Vincent said, his voice raspy and smooth like crushed glass. "And the infamous Elena Cruz. I must admit, I expected my little corporate trap to buy me at least another week before you figured out the source."

"Your trap was pathetic, Vincent," Damian said, stepping into the room, his rifle trained squarely on the center of the old man's chest. "Just like your brother's empire. You should have stayed in the grave where you belonged."

Vincent chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "The grave is for men with no imagination, Reyes. You think you own Chicago just because you wiped out Lorenzo? The syndicates didn't disappear; they evolved. And I hold the master keys to every offshore account, political bribe, and police file in this city. If you pull that trigger, an automated dead-man's switch will release everything to the federal press. Your legitimate empire will crumble to dust by noon."

Elena stepped into the study beside Damian, her eyes scanning the glowing computer screens. Her fingers danced lightly over a spare terminal on a side table. "You're assuming your dead-man's switch is still connected to a live network, Vincent."

Vincent’s reptilian eyes flicked toward her, a sudden flash of genuine uncertainty crossing his weathered face. "What are you talking about?"

Elena smiled—a cold, beautiful, terrifying smile. "While you were sitting here playing God, Marcus was rerouting your server architecture through our own proxy grid. Your dead-man's switch isn't going to the press, Vincent. It's going straight to a secure DOJ archive marked 'Confiscated Evidence.'"

For the first time, color drained entirely from Vincent Moretti’s face. He lunged for a heavy bronze lever hidden beneath the edge of his desk, but Damian was faster. A single, thunderous gunshot shattered the wood an inch from Vincent’s hand, freezing him in place.

Damian walked forward, grabbed the old man by the collar, and hauled him out of his chair, slamming him against the oak bookshelf with bone-rattling force.