"They beat my housekeeper nearly unconscious because she wore my family crest, then dumped her bleeding into the rain as a warning meant for me. But the men who attacked Emma Carter made one catastrophic mistake: they thought hurting someone under my protection would make Dominic Castellano afraid."

By 5:15 a.m., the morning chill was setting in, but inside the main processing room, the air was heavy and warm.

A single halogen work light hung from a heavy iron chain, casting a harsh, glaring circle over a wooden chair bolted directly to the center of the floor. Tied securely to that chair was a massive man with a shaved head, a thick blond beard, and a crude, writhing viper tattooed across his right forearm.

His name was Yuri. He was Kolov’s favorite attack dog—the very animal who had held Emma against the brick wall while her ribs were cracked.

Yuri strained against the heavy zip-ties biting into his wrists, spitting blood onto the concrete. When the heavy steel door creaked open, he jerked his head up, his eyes wide with a mixture of rage and mounting terror.

I stepped into the light, wearing my tailored charcoal overcoat, my hands tucked casually into my pockets. Salvatore and Marco flanked me, their expressions carved from stone.

“You’re Castellano,” Yuri spat, his voice thick with a harsh Russian accent. “You think you’re a big man because you burn some boxes? Kolov is going to skin you alive—”

I didn't answer immediately. I walked in a slow, deliberate circle around him, listening to the frantic rhythm of his pulse echoing in the quiet room.

Then, I stopped directly behind his right shoulder.

I reached out, grabbing his right forearm—the one bearing the snake tattoo—and twisted it upward at an unnatural angle.

Yuri let out a sharp, ragged gasp of pain.

“This arm,” I murmured, my voice chillingly soft, “held a frightened twenty-two-year-old girl against a brick wall while she begged for her life. This hand struck her in the face because she wore a Castellano crest.”

“She works for you!” Yuri snarled through gritted teeth. “It was a message! Kolov said—”

Crack.

I applied steady, downward pressure until the radius bone in his forearm snapped with the dry sound of a breaking tree branch.

Yuri’s scream tore through the cavernous room, bouncing off the concrete walls before dying into a pathetic, choking whimper. Sweat poured down his forehead, soaking into his beard.

“Kolov is an idiot,” I said, releasing his broken arm so it hung limply by his side. “And you are an even bigger idiot for working for him.”

“Fuck you...” Yuri panted, his face pale as paper.

“Where is Kolov?” I asked, my tone as casual as if I were asking for the weather forecast.

“I won’t... I won’t tell you shit—”

Marco stepped forward, casually drawing a heavy hunting knife from his belt and testing the edge against his thumb. “Yuri, my boss isn't a patient man this early in the morning. He’s got a breakfast meeting at eight, and I’d hate to make him late because we spent an hour discussing your anatomy.”

Yuri looked from Marco’s knife to my impassive face. The bravado completely evaporated, replaced by the primal, gut-wrenching terror of a man who realized he had stepped off the edge of a cliff.

“The... the Alpine Club,” Yuri stammered, tears blurring his eyes. “Upstate. Near Bear Mountain. It’s a private hunting lodge. Kolov is hiding out there with his inner circle.”

I nodded slowly, signaling Marco to lower the knife.

“Thank you, Yuri,” I said smoothly.

“Are you... are you going to let me go?” he begged, trembling violently.

I looked at Salvatore. “Take him down to the river. Give him a concrete pair of boots. Make sure he feeds the fish before sunrise.”