The first rule of surviving a man like Callum Russo was simple.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the asphalt of Michigan Avenue into a slick, black mirror reflecting neon signs and red taillights.

Callum’s custom-built black Maybach pulled up directly to the curb with the smooth, silent grace of a predator. Miller, his bodyguard, hopped out instantly, holding a massive black golf umbrella over the door before Sadie could even reach for the handle.

“Get inside,” Callum instructed, gesturing for her to slide across the leather interior.

Sadie hesitated for a fraction of a second, clutching her portfolio against her ribs like armor, before sliding into the climate-controlled warmth of the backseat. Callum slid in beside her, the heavy armored door thudding shut with a satisfying, airtight seal that instantly muted the chaos of the Chicago storm outside.

“Drive, Miller. North Side depot. Take the Lake Shore bypass,” Callum ordered without looking up.

“Mr. Russo,” Sadie said, her voice tight with anxiety as the car pulled smoothly into traffic. “You shouldn't be doing this. If Miller—if the others find out you’re personally getting involved in an audit dispute—”

“Let’s clear something up right now, Ms. Miller,” Callum interrupted, turning his head to look at her in the dim illumination of the dashboard. “The moment someone working under my payroll lays a hand on my lead art authenticator—let alone threatens her life—this ceases to be an HR dispute. It becomes a matter of internal discipline.”

“Internal discipline,” Sadie repeated, a dry, humorless laugh escaping her lips. “Is that what you call executing people in abandoned rail yards?”

Callum didn't smile. “That depends entirely on what’s inside that leather case.”

Sadie instinctively tightened her grip on the portfolio. “You already have my preliminary report on the Caravaggio.”

“I’m not talking about the Caravaggio,” Callum said smoothly. “You mentioned a warehouse ledger. Explain.”

Sadie stared out the window at the blurred streaks of city lights. For a long moment, the only sound inside the car was the quiet hum of the engine and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers clearing away the sheets of rain.

“Yesterday afternoon,” Sadie began quietly, her voice trembling slightly as the memory rushed back, “I was sent to the old shipping warehouse down by the Calumet River to inventory the private art collection confiscated from the Vance estate liquidation.”

Callum’s eyes narrowed slightly. Salvatore Vance had been eliminated three months ago after trying to run a rival operation behind Callum’s back. His assets had been seized and placed under Callum’s direct custody.

“Go on,” Callum prompted.

“I was cataloging a series of nineteenth-century French impressionist canvases in the back bay,” Sadie continued, turning to look at him directly. “One of the crates—crate number four-eighty-two—was labeled as damaged frames. But when I pried open the top slat with my crowbar, there were no paintings inside.”

“What was inside?”

“Ledgers,” Sadie said, her voice dropping to a tense whisper. “Not art ledgers. Shipping manifests, customs bypass codes, and financial wire receipts dating back two years. They detailed a massive, unauthorized narcotics and contraband transit route operating directly out of our South Side container terminals.”

Callum’s expression went completely glacial. The South Side terminals were under the direct operational command of his senior logistics director, a cold, ambitious lieutenant named Declan Vance—Salvatore’s estranged cousin who had supposedly sworn loyalty to Callum after Salvatore’s fall.

“Did you make copies?” Callum asked.

“I photographed every single page with my phone before I heard footsteps behind me,” Sadie said, her hand instinctively rubbing the dark bruises around her wrist. “Before I could close the crate, Declan’s right-hand man, a thug named Kincaid, grabbed me from behind. He twisted my arm, took my phone, deleted the photos from the recently deleted folder, and threw the device against the concrete wall until it shattered.”

“And then?”

“He threw me against the metal shelving,” Sadie whispered, tears finally spilling over her lashes and tracking down her pale cheeks. “He said if I ever mentioned crate four-eighty-two to you—if I so much as whispered a word about shipping manifests to Mr. Russo—he would find my mother at her nursing home in Evanston and burn it to the ground with her inside.”

The interior of the Maybach felt like it had been plunged into liquid nitrogen.

Callum didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist against the door. He simply sat motionless, but the absolute stillness radiating from him was far more terrifying than any explosion of rage.

“Miller,” Callum said softly.

“Boss?” the bodyguard replied from behind the glass partition.

“Call the night crew. Tell Marcus and Dominic to meet us at the Calumet warehouse in twenty minutes. I want the gates locked down. Nobody enters, and nobody leaves.”

“Understood, Mr. Russo.”

Callum turned back to Sadie, reaching out to gently touch her uninjured hand. This time, she didn't flinch. She leaned into his touch, her breath trembling.

“You should have come straight to me,” Callum said, his voice unusually gentle.

“You’re a mob boss, Mr. Russo,” Sadie said with a faint, bitter smile through her tears. “In my world, running to a criminal syndicate leader to solve your problems is usually a great way to end up sleeping at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”