“Listen, kid. Heal my twins and I’ll adopt you.” I said it to the barefoot homeless boy as a cruel joke in front of three hundred wealthy guests. I was Richard Vale, the most powerful Mafia boss in America, a man who could make almost anything happen with one phone call, but when Noah calmly placed his hands on my children’s knees, my daughter suddenly whispered, “Daddy… I can feel it.”

The gunfire down by the gardens was sharp, professional, and mercifully brief. Marcus’s men were veterans of urban combat; they didn't miss. Within three minutes, the muffled pops of silenced weapons ceased, replaced only by the steady drizzle of rain against the reinforced glass of the grand foyer.

I stood in the center of the dark hallway, the SIG MPX held tight against my chest, my eyes locked on the massive mahogany front doors.

Click.

The heavy iron deadbolt turned. Someone on the other side had bypassed the biometric lock using a military-grade code breaker.

Slowly, silently, the ten-foot-tall doors swung inward.

A figure stepped through the threshold, shaking the rain from a black tactical turtleneck. It was Victor Vance. Behind him, three more enforcers crept in, weapons raised, scanning the shadows.

"Richard!" Victor called out, his voice echoing off the marble walls with a cruel, mocking amusement. "I know you're here, you old bastard. Word travels fast in the city. Whispers say you found a little miracle worker tonight. Marcone wants to meet the kid. Hand him over quietly, and maybe we won't have to burn this pretty house down around your wife's ears."

I stepped out from the shadows of the staircase, the barrel of my MPX pointed directly at the center of Victor’s chest.

"You're a long way from the South Side, Victor," I said smoothly, my voice cutting through the silence like a razor blade. "And you're standing on very expensive rug."

Victor froze, his eyes widening slightly as he spotted me. But he didn't drop his weapon. A slow, ugly grin spread across his scarred face.

"You're outnumbered, Vale," Victor sneered, raising his submachine gun. "Your guards out by the fountains are sleeping. It's just you and—"

Rat-tat-tat-tat!

I didn't let him finish the sentence. I squeezed the trigger, sending a three-round burst directly into the floor tiles inches from his boots, followed by a sweeping arc of suppression fire that forced all four intruders to dive behind marble pillars for cover.

"My guards are having a wonderful evening, Victor," I yelled over the din of shattering porcelain from a decorative vase nearby. "You, on the other hand, are about to become fertilizer for my rose bushes!"

The enforcers returned fire, chunks of mahogany paneling and plaster exploding around my head. I ducked behind the curved marble base of the grand staircase, reloading with practiced, mechanical efficiency.

Two against four, I calculated. They have heavier suppressors, but I know every square inch of this house.

Before I could pop out to engage the shooter on the left flank, a sudden, blinding flash of white light erupted from the hallway leading to the private family wing.

I whipped my head around.

Noah was standing at the end of the corridor.

He wasn't hiding in the safe room. He had slipped past Claire and walked right into the line of fire. His hands were glowing—not with a metaphorical light, but with a crackling, pulsing aura of pure, blinding white energy that cast long, distorted shadows across the walls.

"Noah! Get back!" I shouted, panic tearing through my chest.

One of Marcone's enforcers leaped out from behind a pillar, spotting the boy. "What the hell is that? Shoot the kid!"

The enforcer raised his rifle toward Noah.

Something inside my soul snapped. The mafia boss, the ruthless criminal, the cold calculator of risk and reward vanished instantly, replaced by a father driven by pure, animalistic rage. I lunged out from behind the staircase, roaring like a wounded beast, and emptied half my magazine into the enforcer's chest before he could pull the trigger.