A dying mob boss hid his terminal illness for months, until his closest friend kidnapped his maid's daughter.

Pier 42 rose out of the swirling white blizzard like a rusted metal leviathan.

The main warehouse was a vast, cavernous shell of corrugated iron, cracked concrete floors, and towering stacks of wooden shipping crates. Outside, the freezing waves of Lake Michigan slammed against the icy wooden pilings with rhythmic, booming thuds that sounded like distant artillery.

Inside, the warehouse was lit by a few hanging halogen work lights that cast harsh, blinding yellow glare and deep, black shadows across the floor.

In the center of the vast space sat a single, wooden chair.

Bound to the chair with thick ropes was the Housemaid. She was sobbing quietly, her face bruised, her gray coat torn.

Standing three feet beside her was her five-year-old daughter. The Little Girl was weeping, clutching her small cream cardigan around her shoulders, her pale-blue ribbon bow slightly askew in her light-brown hair. She was terrified, but physically unharmed.

Surrounding them were six armed men wearing dark tactical gear, carrying submachine guns.

Standing near the edge of the light, holding his thick leather succession binder in one hand and a gold-plated fountain pen in the other, was Vittorio Russo.

Vittorio looked at his luxury watch, his face calm, elegant, and entirely composed.

"He won't come himself, Vittorio," Marcus, his driver, said, stepping up beside him. "He's crippled. He can barely walk down the stairs without holding the rail. He'll send his capos."

"He will come," Vittorio replied smoothly, his silver-streaked hair gleaming beneath the halogen light. "Alessandro is a man of ancient, foolish codes. He believes it is his duty to protect those under his roof. He will come here to die like a king, and he will sign these papers before he takes his last breath."

Suddenly, the heavy steel roll-up door at the far end of the warehouse exploded inward.

A roaring wall of metal, glass, and snow slammed into the room as the midnight-blue armored SUV crashed through the corrugated iron doors at fifty miles an hour.

The vehicle spun in a sharp, precise 180-degree drift, its heavy rear bumper smashing into two of the armed guards, sending them flying across the concrete floor into the wooden crates like ragdolls.