I GAVE THE CITY’S MOST RUTHLESS MAFIA BOSS $5 TO RESCUE MY MOM—UNTIL HE SAW HIS DEAD BROTHER’S BLOOD ON THE BILL.

Before leaving Warehouse 14, Andrew walked toward the sole surviving mercenary who had been shot through the collarbone. The man was groaning in agony, clutching his bleeding shoulder as two Mercer soldiers pinned him to the damp floor.

Andrew didn't raise his voice. He didn't scream. He simply crouched beside the wounded man, resting his heavy elbow on his knee.

"What's your name?" Andrew asked conversationally.

"D-Derek," the man stammered, his teeth chattering from blood loss and sheer terror. "Please, Mercer... I was just hired muscle. Cassian paid us twenty grand each. We didn't know he was your brother!"

"Derek," Andrew murmured, tapping the barrel of his warm pistol against the man’s uninjured shoulder. "You have exactly twenty seconds of life remaining. In those twenty seconds, you are going to tell me everything about Cassian’s security perimeter at the coastal estate, the exact room Clara Callahan is being held in, and what time this wedding ceremony is scheduled."

"And if I tell you?" Derek wheezed, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "Do I get an ambulance?"

Andrew stared at him with cold, emotionless eyes. "If you tell me, you get a quick bullet to the brain that ends your suffering in a fraction of a second. If you lie or hesitate, I will let Marco introduce you to a blowtorch and a pair of pliers while you bleed out for the next twelve hours. Make your choice."

Derek looked into Andrew’s eyes and saw absolute, unwavering certainty. The man broke instantly.

"The coastal bluffs! The Blackwood Manor in Montauk!" Derek blurted out frantically. "Cassian brought in twenty private Russian contractors! They have thermal cameras along the main driveway and heavy machine gun nests on the roof! The ceremony isn't at the main house—it’s in the consecrated private chapel on the cliff edge!"

"What time?" Andrew pressed, his voice tightening.

"Midnight! Exactly midnight!" Derek screamed. "The crooked registrar had a flight out of JFK at three in the morning, so Cassian insisted on finishing the vows before twelve! That's twenty-five minutes from now! If she signs, Cassian’s offshore accounts automatically activate the freight takeover, and he’s ordered the cleanup crew to shoot her and stage it as a suicide!"

Andrew stood up. He checked his watch: 11:36 PM.

Montauk was twenty-five minutes away by helicopter, or forty minutes by highway through the storm. Driving was out of the question.

"Marco," Andrew commanded, walking toward the warehouse exit. "Contact the private helipad at our Queens depot. Have the twin-engine Sikorsky spun up and waiting on the rooftop. We go by air."

"What about him, Boss?" a soldier asked, gesturing toward Derek.

Andrew didn't look back as he stepped out into the rain.

Bang.

Marco holstered his pistol and followed his Don into the black night.

As the armored convoy tore through the deserted streets toward the Queens helipad, Andrew dialed his home secure line.

After two rings, Mrs. Gable answered. "Mercer residence."

"How is she?" Andrew asked immediately.

"She’s asleep, Master Andrew," the housekeeper replied softly. "I gave her a warm bath and a bowl of chicken broth. She placed that five-dollar bill under her pillow. She told me she had to keep it safe because it was the contract that would bring her mother home."

Andrew closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. The sheer weight of that child’s trust felt heavier than any empire he had ever built.

"Maria," Andrew said, his voice raw. "Daniel is alive. He’s in an armored ambulance heading to our private clinic right now. Have Dr. Vance waiting with whole blood and cardiac monitors."

A sharp, breathless sob echoed over the receiver. "Oh, thank God... thank the Lord almighty!"

"Keep Ivy safe," Andrew added. "I’m going to get her mother now."

He hung up just as the convoy screeched to a halt beside the private helipad. The deafening roar of the twin-engine Sikorsky helicopter’s rotor blades whipped the torrential rain into a blinding mist.

Andrew climbed into the cabin, strapped himself in, and racked his assault rifle. Around him, eight of his most lethal, battle-tested veterans checked their night-vision goggles and tactical gear in silence.

The pilot turned back, giving a thumbs-up. "Flight time to Blackwood Manor is eighteen minutes through this gale, Don Andrew! We'll be dropping right onto the cliffside lawn!"