The tiny voice echoed down the cold marble hallway of the most feared mansion in New York.

The perimeter of Blackwood Ridge was heavily fortified. A twelve-foot wrought-iron fence topped with razor wire snaked through the dark pine forest, punctuated by motion sensors and infrared security cameras.

At 3:45 AM, lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the massive stone mansion nestled in the center of the grounds.

*Thwack!*

A suppressed sniper round shattered the main security camera mounted at the gate.

A split second later, the lead armored Suburban, reinforced with a heavy steel ramming bar, smashed through the iron gates with a deafening roar of twisting metal and splintering wood.

The convoy surged up the winding gravel driveway, their headlights cutting through the blinding downpour.

Inside the compound, alarms began to wail—shrill, mechanical sirens cutting through the night. Spotlights snapped on from the roof of the stone house, bathing the driveway in harsh white glare.

Automatic gunfire erupted instantly.

Bullets chewed through the trees and ricocheted off the armored glass of Lucas’s SUV like hail against tin.

"Go! Go! Go!" Lucas roared over the tactical radio.

The doors of the four Suburbans kicked open simultaneously. Lucas’s tactical team poured out into the rain, moving in tight, lethal military formations. Suppressed carbines spat fire into the darkness.

Lucas didn't wait for covering fire. Driven by a primal, desperate fury, he sprinted through the mud, firing his rifle with pinpoint accuracy. A mercenary in body armor leaned out of a first-floor window to aim a shotgun; Lucas put two rounds through his chest before the man could pull the trigger.

"Flank the rear! Cut the generators!" Gabe shouted, leading four men around the west side of the manor.

Lucas kicked open the heavy oak front door of the mansion.

The foyer was grand, cold, and smelled of stale tobacco and gun oil. Two armed guards burst from a side hallway, weapons raised. Lucas fired from the hip, dropping the first, while Marco tackled the second to the ground, disarming him with brutal efficiency.

"Where is the boy?!" Lucas roared, grabbing the downed guard by the throat and lifting him half off the floor.

The guard gagged, his eyes wide with sheer terror as he recognized the death-mask face of Lucas Moretti. "Basement! The reinforced safe-room! But Henderson... Henderson went down there when the alarms tripped!"

Lucas dropped the man like a sack of stones and bolted down the stone stairs leading into the depths of the house.

Henderson was Victor Romano’s most vicious hitman—a sociopath without conscience or loyalty, who operated solely for money. If Henderson reached Daniel before Lucas reached the safe-room...

*Bang!*

A gunshot echoed from the basement hallway below.

Lucas’s heart dropped into his stomach. A scream tore from his lungs—an unholy sound of pure agony.

"DANIEL!"

Lucas flew down the remaining stairs, rounding the corner into a concrete corridor.

At the end of the hall, a heavy vault door hung half-open. Henderson stood in the doorway, wearing tactical gear, his pistol raised, leveling his sights on a small figure huddled in the corner of a windowless room.

Lucas didn't aim for center mass. He didn't think about tactics.

He threw himself forward, firing three consecutive rounds on the move.

The first bullet struck Henderson’s forearm, shattering the bone and sending his gun flying across the concrete. The second pierced Henderson’s hip, dropping the towering mercenary to his knees.

Before Henderson could even scream, Lucas closed the distance, slamming his heavy combat boot into the killer’s face with bone-shattering force. Henderson flew backward, his head snapping against the steel vault frame, collapsing into unconsciousness, pooling blood onto the floor.

Lucas stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his rifle lowered. His breath caught in his throat.

In the corner of the small, bare room, beneath a rough wool blanket on an iron cot, sat an eight-year-old boy.

He had wild, messy auburn hair that curled at the ends. His skin was pale from years without sunlight, his clothes were worn and frayed, and his hands were trembling violently. On the left side of his small, rounded chin was a faint, crescent-shaped scar.

In his small hands, Daniel was clutching a tattered, faded watercolor drawing of a woman with brown curls sitting at a piano.

Daniel looked up. His wide, terrified gray eyes met Lucas’s.

The rifle slipped from Lucas’s fingers, clattering loudly against the concrete floor.

The most feared mob boss on the East Coast fell to his knees, tears instantly washing the rain and gunpowder from his face.