A four-year-old girl wandered into a feared mafia boss’s private room, wearing a silver locket that proved his dead wife had been alive three years ago.

The silence inside the Grand Ballroom was broken by a sharp, hysterical laugh from Marcus Vance.

Recognizing that his deception was completely shattered, Vance dropped his legal mask entirely. His face twisted into a vicious, desperate scowl as he slammed his palm onto the mahogany table.

"Take him down!" Vance screamed to his guards. "Kill him! Kill everyone in this room if you have to!"

Before the chief security officer could pull his trigger, Adrian’s right hand shot across the table like a striking cobra. He grabbed the heavy glass crystal water carafe resting near the centerpiece and whipped it sideways with blinding speed.

The heavy glass smashed directly into the chief guard’s jaw, shattering in a spray of water and crystal, dropping the man instantly to the floorboards.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Gunfire detonated inside the sealed ballroom.

Adrian flipped the heavy oak conference table onto its side with superhuman strength, using the three-inch-thick wood as a temporary shield against the barrage of suppressed rounds. The regional directors screamed, throwing themselves flat onto the floor, scrambling under chairs to avoid the crossfire.

Adrian drew both customized 9mm sidearms from his shoulder holster rig in a single, fluid motion. He rolled out from behind the flipped table, staying low against the carpet, his weapons barking in rhythmic, lethal succession.

BANG. BANG.

Two guards standing near the window dropped, their weapons clattering against the glass.

Adrian sprang to his feet, stepping through the cloud of drywall dust and gun smoke with terrifying precision. A third guard stepped from behind a marble pillar, raising his firearm, but Adrian closed the distance in a fraction of a second, grabbing the man’s wrist, twisting it until the bone snapped, and driving his knee into the guard’s chest before throwing him through the arched glass window.

The high-altitude wind from Lake Michigan rushed into the ballroom with a deafening roar, blowing dark rain and mist across the carpet, whipping the heavy crimson drapes into a frenzy.

Vance was crawling frantically toward the rear service door, his tailored suit ruined, his hands bleeding from shattered glass on the floor.

Adrian walked through the storm inside the room, his dark leather jacket slick with rain from the broken window, his grey eyes locked onto the crawling attorney. He stepped over the fallen guards, his heavy boots making slow, deliberate sounds against the hardwood.

Vance reached the service door, his hand grabbing the brass handle, yanking it open with a desperate gasp.

A heavy boot slammed into the door, kicking it shut with such force that the steel frame bent.

Vance spun around on his back, backing up against the wall, looking up into the face of the man he had spent three years trying to destroy.

Adrian stood over him, holding his sidearm loosely at his side, his face completely unreadable.

"Please... Adrian..." Vance wept, his silver hair wild, his hands raised in pathetic supplication. "It was the directors! They forced me into it! They wanted the freight lines! I was just protecting the firm's interests!"

Adrian reached down with his left hand, grabbing Vance by the collar of his tailored jacket, lifting the fifty-six-year-old attorney off the floor with one arm, pinning him against the wall beside the broken window.

The cold ocean wind screamed into the room, whipping Adrian’s dark hair across his forehead.

"You brought a fire to my house, Marcus," Adrian said softly, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind like a cold blade. "You made my daughter sleep in a servant's room for eighteen months. You made me bury an empty box."

Adrian reached into Vance's coat pocket, pulling out the gold signet ring Vance wore on his right hand—a ring that had belonged to Adrian's father. He slipped it into his own pocket.

"Adrian... please!" Vance gasped out, his eyes wide with sheer terror as he looked down at the street nineteen floors below.