The rain did not let up as Dorian Ashford arrived.

The old brick warehouse on the edge of the Ninth Ward smelled of stagnant river water, rusted iron, and cheap cigars.

It was past midnight when Dorian’s convoy of unmarked tactical vehicles rolled silently into the abandoned loading dock. There were no sirens, no flashing lights—just twelve heavily armed men moving with military precision under the cover of darkness.

Audrey sat in the front seat of Dorian’s vehicle alongside Marcus. She had insisted on coming. If Viktor Petrov was tied to her father’s death and the threat against Leo, she needed to see the end of it with her own eyes.

“Stay in the vehicle, Audrey,” Dorian instructed for the fourth time as he checked the magazine of his sidearm.

“I stayed in the car the first time, Dorian,” Audrey replied calmly, pulling a tactical flashlight from the glove compartment. “I’m coming with you.”

Dorian looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at her stubborn expression told him it was useless. He gave a sharp nod. “Stay behind me. Exactly two steps.”

They moved through the rusted side door of the warehouse like shadows.

Inside, massive stacks of shipping containers rose toward the vaulted ceiling like metal canyons. Faint light flickered from an office on the second-level catwalk, accompanied by the low murmur of voices speaking in broken English.

Dorian motioned for Marcus and two tactical officers to flank the left staircase, while he and Audrey moved toward the central freight elevator.

They reached the second-floor office without setting off a single alarm.

Through the frosted glass door, silhouettes of three men were visible around a steel desk. One of them was pacing back and forth, smoking a thick cigar.

“Julian is an idiot,” a gravelly voice growled inside the office. “He couldn't even handle an eight-year-old boy without getting caught by a passing nurse. Now the federal marshals are tearing apart our accounts.”

“Calm down, Viktor,” a second voice replied. “We still have the secondary shipping manifests. Once we liquidate the Ashford holdings—"

Crash.

The door exploded inward as Dorian kicked it off its reinforced hinges with a single, devastating blow.

Before the men inside could even reach for the weapons resting on the desk, Marcus and the tactical officers had them pinned against the wall at gunpoint.

Viktor Petrov—a large, scarred man with cold blue eyes and a gold signet ring on his right hand—froze mid-sentence, his cigar dropping from his fingers to clatter against the concrete floor.

Dorian walked slowly into the center of the office, his gun held casually at his side, radiating an aura of lethal dominance that made the air in the room drop to freezing.

“Looking for my manifests, Viktor?” Dorian asked softly.

Petrov forced a thin, yellow-toothed smile, raising his hands slowly. “Dorian. I didn't know you made house calls in the Ninth Ward.”

“You targeted my son,” Dorian said, taking another step closer. “You used my CFO to embezzle funds and smuggle contraband through my docks. And years ago, you had an honest man killed because he stood in your way.”

Petrov’s eyes flicked past Dorian to where Audrey stood in the doorway. Recognition flashed across the old criminal’s scarred face.

“Ah,” Petrov sneered. “The accountant’s daughter. I wondered what happened to you. Should have finished the job when we took care of your old man.”

Dorian didn't even give Petrov time to finish his sentence.

With blinding speed, Dorian lunged forward, grabbed Petrov by the lapels of his expensive wool coat, and slammed him against the concrete wall so hard the entire office shook.

“You touch her name with your filthy mouth again, and I won't wait for the federal marshals,” Dorian whispered, his voice vibrating with a deadly, controlled fury.

Petrov choked, his hands clawing weakly at Dorian’s wrists.

“Marcus,” Dorian ordered without breaking eye contact. “Call the FBI field office. Tell them Viktor Petrov is ready for pickup. And make sure he goes straight to federal isolation.”

As Marcus hauled the gasping criminal out of the room, Dorian slowly lowered his hands and turned around.

Audrey stood in the doorway, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The ghosts that had haunted her for years—the memories of her father’s death, the helplessness of that rainy night on the bridge—seemed to shatter and wash away in a single moment.

Dorian walked over to her, stopping just inches away. He reached out, his warm hand gently cupping her cheek.