Chapter 1 - Tracks in the White DeathThe silence of the mountain cabin was shattered not by a sound, but by the sudden, heavy pressure of dread in the air.
My eyes locked onto the fresh, dark tracks cutting through the pristine white snow just past the frost-laced windowpane. Tire treads. Heavy-duty, deep-lug treads belonging to a vehicle built for rough terrain—a Ford F-250 or a modified Jeep Wrangler, the kind of machine my brother’s private security detail preferred when they wanted to hunt someone down where the law couldn't reach.
My body screamed in protest as I tried to sit up, the stitched muscle in my shoulder tearing slightly with a hot, sickening flash of white-hot pain. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper, refusing to give in to the weakness. A dead man didn't get to bleed twice.
Elena dropped the roll of gauze onto the wooden side table. Her face had gone completely pale, all color draining from her cheeks in a fraction of a second. She didn't scream or panic; the stillness that took over her frame spoke of someone who had lived through her own private wars before she ever retreated to this isolated peak.
"They're here," I whispered, my voice a gravelly rasp that sounded like grinding stones.
"Who?" Elena’s voice was barely a breath, though her eyes were sharp, darting instinctively toward the heavy iron fireplace poker leaning against the stone hearth.
"Men who don't leave loose ends," I muttered, swinging my legs over the side of the narrow cot. The cold wooden floorboards bit into my bare feet, grounding me. "Listen to me, Elena. You need to get out of here. Through the back door, into the timberline. If they see you, they won't hesitate. They don't care about collateral damage."
She didn't move. Instead, she stepped directly in front of me, blocking my path to the door with a stubbornness that took me completely by surprise.
"This is my cabin," she said, her voice dropping into a steady, unyielding register. "And nobody hunts anyone on my mountain without answering to me first. You're bleeding through your bandages, Vincent. You can't even stand straight."
"I am a walking target, and staying here means they burn this place to the ground with both of us inside," I said, catching her gaze. There was no fear in her eyes anymore—only a terrifying, quiet resolve.
Outside, the faint crunch of heavy boots on packed snow echoed through the crisp mountain air.
Crunch. Crunch. Pause.
They were right outside the porch.
I cursed under my breath, scanning the small room for a weapon. My fingers brushed against a heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the wood-burning stove. Not a handgun, but in close quarters, mass mattered more than caliber.
"Stay behind me," I murmured, shifting my weight to my left side to keep pressure off my wounded shoulder.
The heavy oak front door didn't knock. It exploded inward.
Splintered wood showered across the living room floor as the reinforced frame gave way under a brutal kick. Through the swirling cloud of dust and frost, a massive figure stepped inside, dressed in tactical black winter gear, a suppressed submachine gun raised and leveled straight at my chest.
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"Well, well, well," a cold, familiar voice drawled from behind the masked operative. "Looks like big brother is harder to kill than a cockroach."
Marco Torino stepped into the cabin. My younger brother. The boy I had raised, protected, and trusted with half my empire, now wearing a smug, satisfied smirk as he looked down at me like I was something he had scraped off the bottom of his boot.
