“A Man Is Pushing Mama Into a Black Car Outside,” the Maid’s Toddler Shouted to the Mafia Boss

The Old Federal Grain Pier looked like a graveyard for dead industry. Giant rusted cranes leaned against the storm-swept sky like skeletal dinosaurs, their metal cables groaning as the wind whistled through them. The river below churned in dark, oily waves, slapping violently against the barnacle-encrusted pilings.

Victor killed the Charger's headlights a quarter-mile out, rolling the heavy vehicle quietly behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.

He stepped out into the pouring rain, racking the slide of his handgun with a crisp, lethal clack.

Through the sheet of water, he spotted two vehicles parked inside the gaping doorway of a massive, half-collapsed corrugated warehouse: Gregory’s black Mercedes and a dark, unmarked SUV with tinted windows—the vehicle used by the Delacroix abduction team.

Victor moved like a ghost. Despite his massive size, two decades of street warfare had taught him how to step without making a sound. He glided along the exterior wall of the warehouse, staying in the deep shadows beneath the broken tin eaves.

Inside the warehouse, floodlights had been rigged up on yellow tripods, casting harsh, flickering light across stacks of concrete bags and rotting wooden pallets.

Tied to an iron chair in the center of the illuminated ring was Hannah Bell.

Her trench coat was torn at the shoulder, her dark hair wet and matted against her neck. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of her lip down her pale jaw, but her head was held high, her blue eyes blazing with defiant fire.

Standing ten feet away from her, impeccably dressed in a dry beige trench coat and holding a leather briefcase, was Gregory Vance.

And standing beside Gregory were three heavily armed men wearing dark tactical gear—enforcers belonging to Julian Delacroix, Victor’s ruthless rival in the Baltimore port operations.

Victor pressed his back against the rusted iron wall near a high, broken window, listening carefully to every word drifting through the storm.

"I’ll ask you one more time, Hannah," Gregory’s voice echoed through the vast, empty hall, completely lacking the smooth, polite tone he had used at Harrow Point for fourteen years. "Where did you put the secondary ledger key? I know Victor gave you the master cipher for the offshore holding accounts before he went to New York last month."

Hannah spat a mouthful of blood onto the dusty concrete near Gregory’s polished leather shoes.

"He never gave me any ciphers, you bastard," Hannah said, her voice trembling slightly with physical pain but ringing with absolute strength. "He trusted you. He treated you like a brother after his family died, and you’re selling him out for scraps."

Gregory laughed—a dry, soulless sound that chilled the air.

"Treated me like a brother?" Gregory spat, his face twisting into a bitter mask of hatred. "I managed his life! I cleaned up his messes! I sat in that miserable house for fourteen years playing the loyal servant while he sat on a throne built on his father's blood money! Victor Castellano is a broken, weak man driven by old ghosts. He was supposed to execute you tonight, Hannah! That was the plan. I planted the footage, I set the trail. He was supposed to kill you in a fit of rage, destroy his own moral core, and leave the syndicate in total chaos so Julian Delacroix could step in and hand me my forty percent share!"

"He’s ten times the man you’ll ever be," Hannah rasped, glaring up at him. "He didn't believe your stupid tape. And even if you kill me, he will hunt you to the ends of the earth."

Gregory drew a silver-plated pistol from his coat pocket and pressed the cold barrel directly against Hannah’s forehead.

"Victor isn't coming, my dear," Gregory sneered softly. "He thinks you're a thief. Right now, he’s probably sitting in his dry study drinking cold coffee, regretting ever letting a maid into his house. Nobody is coming to save you."