The air was thick with humidity, and the sky flickered with jagged forks of lightning over Lake Michigan. I was sitting in my study reviewing shipping manifests when the estate’s primary security monitors suddenly hissed, blinked violently, and went completely black.

Every single screen turned to static.

“Luke!” I shouted, wheeling myself toward the study door.

Before I could reach the hallway, the heavy oak door burst open—not with Luke standing there, but two armed mercenaries wearing tactical vests and ski masks, holding suppressed submachine guns.

“Don't move, cripple!” the lead gunman snarled, leveling his barrel straight at my chest.

My hand flashed toward the underside of my wheelchair where my backup Glock was holstered, but a second gunman lunged forward, kicking the chair’s wheel and sending me spinning violently into the bookshelf. Books rained down around me as I struggled to keep my balance.

“Where’s the vault key?” the gunman demanded, pressing the cold barrel of his rifle against my temple. “Moretti sends his regards.”

So the rat inside our payroll hadn't just leaked schedules; he had given them the master blueprint. They had disabled the perimeter grid, bypassed the gates, and walked straight into the lion's den while Luke was out inspecting the north docks.

They thought I was helpless because I couldn't stand on my feet.

They forgot that a mind sharpened by a decade of gang warfare doesn't die just because the legs stop working.

“You’re making a massive mistake,” I said, keeping my voice chillingly calm as I locked eyes with the gunman. “Moretti thinks he’s stepping into a vacuum. By sunrise, every safehouse he owns in this city will be burning to the ground.”

“Shut your mouth—!” the gunman barked, raising the butt of his rifle to strike me across the face.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the dark hallway outside the study.

Clatter.

A heavy silver cleaning bucket hit the hardwood floor with a deafening echo.

Both gunmen froze, their heads snapping toward the doorway.

Emma stood at the end of the hall, frozen in sheer terror. She must have been coming down with fresh linens when she saw the tactical operatives securing the corridor. Her eyes widened in horror as she looked from the armed men to me trapped against the bookshelf.

“Well, well, well,” the lead gunman sneered, lowering his rifle from my head and turning toward her with a cruel grin. “Looks like we got a stray cat. Grab her, Leo. She’ll make a great insurance policy when we walk out of here with the cash.”

The second gunman turned, stepping swiftly down the hallway toward Emma, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her screaming into the study.

“Let me go! Get your hands off me!” Emma fought back fiercely, kicking and thrashing against his grip, but the trained mercenary easily subdued her, pressing a pistol barrel against the side of her head.

Something inside my chest snapped. A cold, blinding fury—far more powerful than the phantom pain in my legs—ignited through my veins.

They could threaten me. They could tear apart my empire, smash my furniture, and hold a gun to my head.

But touching Emma was an unforgivable sin.

“Let her go,” I whispered, the sound carrying a lethal, quiet menace that made even the armed mercenaries hesitate.

“Shut up, cripple! One more word and I blow her brains out right here!” the gunman holding her yelled, cocking the hammer of his pistol.

I looked at Emma. She was crying, her hazel eyes locked onto mine, mouthing 'I'm sorry' through her tears.

And in that split second, I didn't see a civilian liability. I saw the only reason I had crawled out of the dark.

My right hand, hidden beneath the folds of my heavy wool blanket on my lap, quietly gripped the checkered polymer grip of my Glock 19. I had spent months practicing quick-draw maneuvers from a seated position, calculating angles and recoil in my mind.

The gunman holding Emma grinned maniacally, turning back to me. “Alright, Vance, watch your little maid get—!”

Before he could finish the sentence, I whipped the Beretta out from beneath the blanket, locked my wrist, and fired twice.

Bang! Bang!

The muzzle flash lit up the dark study. The lead gunman took a direct round to the chest, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed hard onto the Persian rug.

Before the second gunman could react, I pivoted the barrel toward him, squeezing the trigger a third time. The bullet caught him square in the shoulder, spinning him around and causing him to drop Emma instantly as he crashed into the mahogany desk.

Emma screamed, dropping to her knees and covering her head as smoke filled the room.

I sat in my wheelchair, my heart hammering like a jackhammer, the smoking pistol still leveled at the doorway as heavy footsteps echoed frantically down the hall.

A second later, Luke and four armed bodyguards burst into the study, weapons drawn, taking in the carnage of the room in a single sweeping glance.

Luke lowered his rifle, staring at me in sheer disbelief. “Danny... are you alright?”

“Secure the perimeter,” I ordered, my voice dropping back into the ice-cold authority of a syndicate king. “Find out how many more of Moretti’s bastards are on the property. I want every single one of them hunted down before sunrise.”