Night gripped Chicago's industrial district. Mason pulled Leo's custom Bentley into a darkened alley three blocks from Ramirez's warehouse, cutting the engine. Thunder rumbled overhead, nature's own percussion to accompany their mission.The trio sat tight, waiting on crew updates....Viktor's team struck first. Three black SUVs rolled silent through the midnight fog, headlights dark, engines purring like well-fed panthers. The docks loomed ahead, skeletal cranes cutting jagged shapes against the starless sky."In position," Viktor growled into his comm, Russian accent thick with anticipation. "North entrance clear.""Light 'em up," Mason said.Viktor's crew breached the warehouse, boots silent on wet concrete. Security cameras pivoted uselessly, looping old footage thanks to their tech guy's magic. The warehouse door yielded to shaped charges, whisper-quiet.Inside stood their prize - crates of Ramirez's weapons waited like sleeping dragons. Viktor grinned. Jackpot!"Package secured

"We're blown!" Eve did crackle over their earpieces. "Multiple tangos converging on the east side!"Mason swore, the comfortable weight of Leo's custom Glock settling into his palm. "Stick to the plan! Plant those packages!"Gunfire erupted, the sharp crack of 9mm rounds competing with the deeper boom of shotguns. Mason ducked behind a crate as bullets shattered the wood next to his head. Shouts and gunfire echoed throughout the warehouse, adding to its chaos.More shots, closer now. Mason returned fire, his rounds landing hit and miss with casual accuracy.Can't really fault the guy, he's never shot a gun. "Position!" Mason barked into his comm, ducking behind a shipping container as footsteps thundered above."East wing's hot," Eve's voice came tight with tension. "Two down, more incoming."Sergei's Russian accent rumbled through the static. "West side secure. Packages planted. Need five minutes."Mason moved through the warehouse like a ghost, muscle memory from countless drills gu

Twenty minutes later, Maria clicked her way into Ramirez's study, trading her "tactical black gear" for a slinky red dress that hugged her curves like a Ferrari on Lake Shore Drive. The mansion rose like an old-world castle transplanted to Chicago's Gold Coast - all limestone and arrogance. The foyer's marble floor, imported straight from Carrara, Italy, spread beneath her feet like frozen music. Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto oil paintings worth more than most people made in a lifetime. Renaissance masters stared down from gilded frames - silent witnesses to decades of deals and deaths.Armed guards stood at attention, their respect genuine. In Ramirez's world, Maria had earned her stripes the hard way. The study itself was a testament to power - Brazilian walnut panels lined walls thick enough to muffle screams, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the city Ramirez helped rule. Books nobody read filled custom shelves, their leather spines more prop than

Eve's fingers traced the message on Mason's phone screen, its blue glow painting shadows across her face in the dimly lit penthouse bedroom. The text about Ethan's deadline with Ramirez burned into her mind, but her attention kept drifting to the man lying unconscious before her.Mason's chest rose and fell steadily, his features softened by sleep and medication. The bullet had torn through his shoulder, missing anything vital. Eve had patched him up with practiced efficiency. That's what obscene amounts of money bought in Chicago – making beds out of people."Helluva mess you stepped in," Eve muttered, adjusting the IV drip. Her fingers lingered on Mason's arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. Something stirred in her chest – that damn feeling she'd been trying to squash more lately.First time that feeling hit her, she was just a scrawny kid, she'd been fifteen, face-to-face, trying to lift Leo King's wallet on Maxwell Street – stupid, desperate move.Her fingers? Then clumsy and col

Mason padded toward his kitchen, a parade of "Morning, boss" and "Looking berter, Mr. King" following him down the marble hallway. Even the cleaning lady, Maria, dropped her duster to bow slightly. "Coffee's fresh, señor Rivers. Colombian, like you prefer."The penthouse screamed money louder than a stool pigeon under pressure. Italian marble that cost more than most guys made in a year. Art worth killing for (and some of it actually had been). Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Chicago that'd make God jealous.The coffee maker - some fancy German thing that probably cost more than his first car - hummed to life like it was greeting its master. "Good morning, Mr. King," the digital display actually read, programmed to kiss his ring just like everyone else.As he waited for the imported coffee maker to work its magic, Mason caught his reflection in the chrome, Mason barely recognized himself. Gone was the wide-eyed kid who'd helped Sister Agnes plant flowers. These eyes belong