"No caretaker had survived more than three days with me after the accident—not because the work was too hard, but because as a paralyzed mafia boss, I made sure they understood how unwanted they were. Then a penniless maid named Fay Willis walked into my room, ignored my threats, knelt in front of my wheelchair during a violent muscle spasm, and did something no one in my entire household had managed since I lost the use of my legs."

Inside, the cavernous space was dimly lit by swinging overhead bulbs. In the center of the room, tied securely to a wooden chair with thick nylon zip-ties, sat Fay. Her hair was disheveled, but her chin was held high, and there wasn't a single trace of fear in her expression.

Standing over her was Viktor Vance—a massive, thick-necked Russian with scarred knuckles and a gold wristwatch that gleamed under the yellow lights. Half a dozen Bratva thugs stood around the perimeter with submachine guns slung across their chests.

"Such spirit," Vance sneered, reaching down to grab a lock of Fay’s hair. "Your boyfriend is taking his sweet time. Do you think he cares about a penniless maid more than his docks?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Fay spat back, her voice ice-cold. "And you have no idea who you're messing with. Dominic is going to chew you up and spit you out."

Before Vance could raise his hand to strike her, the heavy steel sliding doors at the front of the warehouse shrieked as they were slowly forced open.

All heads turned toward the entrance.

There, sitting alone in his custom matte-black wheelchair, rolled Dominic Corso.

His dark overcoat billowed slightly in the coastal wind. His face was a mask of cold, lethal stillness, devoid of all emotion. He rolled forward ten feet, stopping under the glaring amber light.

Vance burst into a loud, mocking laugh. "Look at this! The great Dominic Corso! You really came alone, you pathetic cripple?"

"I'm here, Vance," I said, my voice cutting through the wind like a razor. "Let the girl go. The shipping deeds are in the waterproof pouch on my lap."

Vance smiled greedily, motioning to two of his thugs. "Go get the pouch. Check it."

The thugs rushed forward, ripped the leather pouch from my lap, and scurried back to show their boss. Vance opened it, scanning the legal signatures and corporate seals stamped by city clerks.

"Very good, Dominic," Vance purred, sliding the documents into his jacket. "You always were a smart businessman. Unfortunately... business is business."

Vance pulled a heavy, suppressed pistol from his holster and aimed it straight at Fay’s chest.

"I take your empire, and I eliminate your loose ends," Vance grinned.

Fay closed her eyes for a split second, but her jaw remained locked in defiance.

I didn't flinch. A slow, dark smile touched the corners of my mouth.

"Vance," I said softly.

"What?" Vance barked, frowning.

"You forgot rule one of the New York underworld."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never negotiate with a ghost," I whispered.

Clang!

Above us, the massive skylights of the warehouse shattered into a million glittering shards.

Before Vance’s men could even raise their weapons, six black-clad figures dropped from ropes suspended from the rafters, landing silently on the concrete floor. At the exact same second, the heavy steel side doors blew inward with a deafening explosion. Carmine and twenty elite enforcers swarmed the warehouse, their assault rifles locked and loaded, painting every Russian thug with glowing red laser sights.

"Drop your weapons! Drop them now!" Carmine roared, firing a warning shot into the corrugated ceiling that rained plaster and sparks down upon them.

Vance panicked, swinging his pistol toward Fay’s head, screaming, "If I die, she dies with me—"

He never finished the sentence.

With blinding speed, I reached beneath the armrest of my wheelchair, popped open a concealed magnetic panel, and drew a custom-weighted tactical throwing knife.

Thwack.

The blade buried itself hilt-deep into Vance’s right wrist.

Vance shrieked in agony, dropping his pistol as blood spurted across the concrete floor. Before he could reach for his weapon with his left hand, Carmine and Tony were already on him, slamming his face into the floor and slapping heavy steel cuffs around his wrists.

The entire firefight lasted less than four seconds.

The Bratva thugs dropped their submachine guns, raising their hands in surrender as laser sights bored into their chests from every angle.

Silence descended upon the warehouse, broken only by the howling wind outside and the heavy panting of the captured mobsters.

I wheeled my chair forward across the blood-spattered concrete, stopping right in front of Fay. My hands were steady as I pulled a pocketknife from my coat pocket and sliced cleanly through the thick zip-ties binding her wrists and ankles.

Fay rubbed her bruised wrists, looking up at me with wide, shimmering eyes. She didn't say a word. She simply stood up, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder.