Red wine hit my face beneath a thousand glittering crystals, and the laughter that followed felt colder than anything in that ballroom. One second, I was standing beside a marble

While Daniel and I were hidden in the dark safehouse, the city of Chicago was burning.

Michael Carter did not receive the news of the ambush with panic. He received it with absolute, apocalyptic fury.

When the call came in that his daughter’s vehicle had been attacked on Lower Wacker Drive, and that three of his primary shipping warehouses were simultaneously engulfed in flames, my father understood the equation perfectly. Sergei Ivanov had declared a total war.

My father stood in his study, staring out the window at the distant glow of the warehouse fires painting the night sky orange. His top lieutenants stood behind him, waiting for orders.

“Sergei thinks he is a wolf,” my father whispered, his voice so cold it seemed to freeze the air in the room. “He thinks because he hit my warehouses, he has crippled my operations. He thinks I will beg for my daughter’s life.”

My father turned around. The sophisticated businessman had vanished. The ruthless, terrifying patriarch of the Carter syndicate had taken the throne.

“Mobilize every soldier we have,” my father commanded quietly. “I don't want a single Ivanov breathing in this city by sunrise. Burn their clubs. Sink their boats. Eradicate their distribution lines. Do not ask questions. Do not take prisoners.”

“And Sergei?” one of the lieutenants asked nervously.

“Find out exactly who sold him the route my daughter was taking,” my father ordered. “Sergei is aggressive, but he is not a ghost. He had inside help to know she was traveling to the Bellweather Grand tonight. Find the rat, and you will find Sergei.”

The retaliation was swift and devastating.

Within two hours, the Ivanov syndicate’s primary illegal casino in the West Loop was raided by heavily armed Carter loyalists. The building was torn apart, the money seized, and the Russian operators brutally interrogated. The violence spilled into the streets, a bloody message broadcast to every criminal element in the city: You do not touch Michael Carter’s bloodline.

Back in the safehouse, the encrypted radio on Daniel’s tactical belt buzzed to life.

Daniel pulled away from me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes instantly returning to their hyper-vigilant state. He pressed the receiver to his ear.

“Russo,” my father’s voice crackled through the secure line. “Is she safe?”

“She is untouched, sir,” Daniel replied, holding my hand tightly. “We are at secondary location Alpha.”

“Keep her there,” my father ordered. “The city is currently a warzone. Sergei overplayed his hand. I am dismantling his empire as we speak. But he had the security overrides for the hotel route. Someone gave him our schedule.”

Daniel’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, a dark realization dawning in his eyes.

“The Bellweather Grand,” Daniel said softly into the radio. “The only person with the security overrides for the VIP underground routes is the hotel ownership. The Hales.”