At twelve years old, I risked my life to save a drowning man—only to discover minutes later that I had pulled the most feared mafia boss in the city from the river. But the real shock came when he heard my name… and revealed that he knew exactly who my grandmother was.

Four more mercenaries rushed the base of the gantry stairs, their weapons raised.

Aurelio didn't wait for them to climb. He unclipped a smoke grenade from his tactical belt, pulled the pin with his teeth, and dropped it straight down through the open metal grating of the walkway.

Hiss.

A thick, blinding cloud of dense gray smoke billowed upward, instantly filling the lower half of the hangar. Cursing and coughing, the mercenaries stumbled blindly, their night-vision goggles blinded by the chemical haze.

Dropping down from the gantry by sliding fast along a heavy suspension cable, Aurelio hit the concrete floor silently, rolling smoothly into the shadows behind a stack of wooden crates.

He moved like a ghost through the smoke.

Tap. Tap.

Two quick, silent strikes with the rubberized butt of his weapon dropped the nearest two guards before they even realized he was behind them.

Within three minutes, eleven of Moretti’s twelve elite mercenaries were unconscious on the hangar floor.

The smoke began to clear as the coastal breeze swept in through the open hangar doors. Dante Moretti stood alone in the center of the floor, his face deathly pale, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold his leather briefcase.

He swept his assault rifle frantically back and forth, aiming at shadows.

“Show yourself, you coward!” Moretti screamed, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. “Come out and face me!”

From the shadows near the nose cone of the Gulfstream jet, a quiet, steady voice answered him.

“I’m right here, Dante.”

Aurelio stepped out from the darkness into the red strobe light of the jet engine. He wasn't wearing a ski mask or a tactical helmet. His face was fully exposed—young, scarred by the river current, and carrying the cold, unforgiving gaze of an avenging judge.

Moretti froze. He lowered the barrel of his rifle slightly, staring in sheer disbelief at the boy standing before him.

“You...” Moretti breathed, his eyes widening in recognition. “You’re the street rat from the river. The boy Vargas pulled out of the slums.”

“I’m the grandson of Esperanza Mendoza,” Aurelio corrected, his voice as cold as winter steel. “The woman you burned out of her home twelve years ago. The woman you and Senator Vance murdered three months ago to tie up loose ends.”

Moretti let out a frantic, manic laugh, raising his rifle toward Aurelio’s chest. “Old Esperanza? She was nothing! A pathetic old woman living in the dirt! And you’re just a kid playing soldier! I’m going to put a bullet between your eyes and fly out of this godforsaken country before—”

Bang.

A single gunshot echoed through the hangar.

It wasn't Aurelio who fired.

From the shadows near the entrance, Mateo Vargas stepped forward, holding a smoking tactical pistol lowered to his side. The bullet had caught Moretti cleanly in the right shoulder, spinning the crime lord around and sending his assault rifle clattering across the concrete.

Moretti screamed, clutching his bloody shoulder as he collapsed to his knees, the leather briefcase flying from his grip and bursting open, scattering millions of dollars in bearer bonds across the oily floor.

Vargas walked slowly toward Moretti, his boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete. He stopped directly in front of the kneeling, bleeding man, looking down with absolute contempt.

“You always were a sloppy tactician, Dante,” Vargas said quietly. “You thought power came from the barrel of a gun. You forgot that power belongs to those who honor their debts.”

Moretti looked up, coughing up blood, glaring defiantly at Vargas. “Kill me, then. Go ahead. You think taking over my routes makes you a king? You’re just another monster in a dying city.”