Maria's Mercedes cut through Chicago's darkness, the city's neon signs bleeding across her windshield. Her phone buzzed against the leather seat - Reynolds' name lighting up the screen."Talk to me, Mara.""Mierda, you're not gonna like this." Reynolds never bothered with pleasantries - one of the things Maria respected about her. "Burke's report just landed. Clean on top, rotten underneath, like everything else in this goddamn city."The steering wheel creaked under Maria's grip. "Let me guess - 'tried to escape during transfer'?""Shot while fleeing. Cremated before the body was cold." Reynolds' voice had that edge she recognized - the one that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. "No evidence, no questions, no loose ends, just a neat little bow on top of this clusterfuck.""Son of a bitch." Maria jerked the wheel hard, muscle memory taking over as she calculated her next move. Horns blared as she cut across traffic, but Chicago traffic laws were more like suggestions any

Maria lingered in the shadows of the stairwell. Down below, Mason's crew was having their usual late-night powwow in the break room. Tonight though, the usual ball-busting had an edge that made her skin prickle."Y'all seen what happened at the Morrison?" Big Mike's bass rumble filled the space. "Boss had six of the meanest sons of bitches in Chicago pissing themselves. With training rounds." He emphasized those last words like they were gospel."Training rounds," Joey Two-Times wasn't buying it. His Jersey accent dripped with disgust. "Training rounds, training rounds. That's exactly the problem right there. Since when do Kings play with rubber bullets?"Maria held her breath, pressed against cold concrete. This was the kind of intel that made careers – or ended them."Getting squeamish, Two-Times?" Lucia's voice cut through the darkness. "Maybe we shoulda turned the Morrison into Chicago's newest demolition site? Get the feds crawling up our asses like roaches in a tenement?""Bette

Helena King's phone lit up her silk sheets, the screen burning her tired eyes. Maria's message burned into her retinas:Got ourselves a body snatcher wearing the Leo's face. DNA don't lie. Evidence incoming.Helena's manicured fingers tightened around her phone. Years running Chicago's legitimate empire had taught her to smell trouble before it walked through the door. This? This reeked of it."Margaret!" Her voice carried that precise pitch that sent servants scurrying. "Coffee. Now."The pressure was building like a copper's deadline, and she needed something to let off that steam - classy-like.The attached files loaded with painful slowness. Lab results. Genetic markers. Two profiles - one labeled LEO KING, the other MASON RIVERS. The similarities made her stomach turn circus tricks."Sweet Jesus," she whispered, but numbers were numbers. Ninety-nine point nine-nine percent match, but these profiles weren't twins - they were copies."Rivers." The name rolled off her tongue. A nobo

Mason forced his hands steady, though every nerve screamed to run. Eve's casual mention of Thomas's catchphrase had just opened a crater under his feet. The mirror showed him Leo King's face - the face he'd stolen along with everything else. Dead men's shoes always pinched, but these ones might just strangle him. Another thought pushed through the panic:Funny thing about Mason Rivers - he never ran from a fight. Not even when he should've. No family left to mourn him anyway. No wife crying at his grave, no kid growing up fatherless, no business partners to settle accounts with. Death might be knocking, but hell, maybe dying clean beat living dirty."Family bleeds deepest," he repeated, testing the words like a man testing thin ice. "Pop had his way with words, didn't he?"Eve's fingers traced the lapel of his suit, but her eyes had gone sharp as broken glass. "Had his way with everything. Man could make murder sound like poetry." She paused, head tilting. "You never used to call him

The Drake Hotel's Grand Ballroom blazed like heaven's own spotlight before them. Crystal chandeliers raining light on Chicago's finest vultures dressed in their Sunday best. White-jacketed waiters glided between round tables draped in cream silk, silver trays balanced with champagne flutes that caught light like stars. Some fancy orchestra arrangement filled the air - the kind of music that reminded you just how poor you really were.They glided past like royalty, leaving the press pack yapping at their heels. Mason's eyes did what they always did - catalog every face, every movement, every potential threat. Chicago's elite played their parts in this elaborate dance of power. Politicians flashing those trademark smiles that promised everything and delivered nothing but heartache. Society women dripping diamonds that could've fed half the South Side for a year. Real estate kings sharing jokes with judges, probably plotting which neighborhood to gentrify next. Judge Martinez holding cou