They told Dante Cavallaro that Sophie Miller had stolen one hundred thousand dollars from his private safe and disappeared with the one ledger capable of destroying his empire.

The red emergency lights strobed across the penthouse ceiling.

Perimeter breach. Sector Four. Main elevator shaft.

Dante stood up in a fraction of a second, his Sig Sauer drawn from his holster before his feet even hit the floor.

“Stay in this room,” Dante ordered, his voice commanding absolute obedience.

“Dante, what's happening?” Sophie asked, panic flooding her chest.

“Vane,” Dante said simply. “He realized Marco failed. He's coming to finish the job.”

Before Sophie could protest, Dante locked the reinforced steel door of the master suite from the outside.

In the main hallway, Rocco came running around the corner with an assault rifle, his face grim. “Boss! They bypassed the ground-floor security! It's an elite strike team—at least a dozen men coming up the private service stairs!”

“How many guards on floor forty-five?” Dante demanded.

“Four. They're already down.”

Dante's eyes are narrowed. Vane wasn't sending hitmen; he was sending a wet-work unit. He wanted the penthouse wiped out entirely.

“Fall back to the reinforced panic room,” Dante ordered.

“What about you?” Rocco asked.

“I'm going to meet them in the foyer.”

"Boss, that's suicide—"

“Do it, Rocco!” Dante roared. “Keep Sophie safe. If Vane gets past me, burn the building to the ground.”

Dante stepped out into the grand marble hallway just as the elevator doors at the end of the corridor chimed and slid open.

Three armed men in tactical gear stepped out, assault rifles raised.

Dante didn't hesitate.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots. Three direct hits. The men dropped like stone before they could even aim their weapons.

More shouted loudly from the stairwell.

Dante sprinted toward the corner pillar, reloading his magazine as bullets splintered the mahogany wall beside his head. Glass shattered. Alarms screamed. The penthouse was turning into a war zone.

He fired back with cold, mechanical precision, dropping two more mercenaries as they rushed the hallway. But as he clicked his empty magazine out, a heavy boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing backward against the marble floor.

His gun skidded across the slick surface out of reach.

A tall figure stepped out from the smoke and shadows, adjusting the cuffs of an expensive Italian suit.

Silas Vane.

Older than Dante, with silver-streaked hair, cold gray eyes, and a terrifying smile that looked like a scar carved into his face.

“Dante Cavallaro,” Vane said smoothly, looking down at the syndicate boss with undisguised disdain. “The great king of Chicago, brought low by a stray dog in an alley.”

Dante spat a drop of blood onto the marble floor and looked up, his eyes burning with pure, unadulterated fury.

“You're a dead man, Vane.”

“Am I?” Vane exclaimed, pulling a custom pistol from his holster and leveling it right between Dante's eyes. “You built an empire on fear, Dante. But fear doesn't keep you alive when you're cornered. Where is the girl?”

Dante's lips curled into a bloody, defiant smile.

“Behind a door you'll never open.”