The crime boss who terrified an entire city was betrayed at a peace dinner, poisoned before his own men, and abandoned to die alone in the darkness. His killers believed no one would ever find him. But minutes later, two little girls in matching school uniforms stumbled upon his motionless body. Instead of running away, one calmly checked his pulse while the other whispered, We only have minutes before he dies... and before they come back. What the girls did next would ignite a war that no one could stop.

Up in the penthouse office, the panoramic windows offered a breathtaking view of the glittering city skyline. But inside the room, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Derek Santos stood by the mahogany bar, pouring a glass of amber bourbon. His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, his silver-threaded hair combed back with military precision. Seated across from him on a leather sofa was Victor Rossi—an enforcer sent by Dominic Crane to oversee the final transition of power.

"The transfer is ninety percent complete," Rossi said, swirling his drink. "By tomorrow morning, the shipping lanes belong entirely to Dominic. Your old boss is dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere. You played your cards well, Derek."

Derek took a slow sip of his bourbon, a smug, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Carter was a relic. He believed in loyalty, honor, and old-school street codes. The world doesn't run on honor, Victor. It runs on ledgers and leverage."

Suddenly, the wall-mounted security console behind the desk began to flash a violent crimson. A shrill klaxon wailed through the penthouse.

Derek’s smirk vanished. He slammed his glass down onto the bar and strode over to the console.

"What is this?" Rossi asked, standing up.

"Someone's in the basement vault," Derek muttered, his fingers flying across the master control board. "Trying to download the primary offshore ledgers. Security protocols should have locked them in the elevator shaft, but... but the mainframe is overriding our blocks."

"Who could have the override codes?" Rossi narrowed his eyes. "I thought you purged all of Carter's loyalists."

"I did," Derek hissed, sweat beading on his forehead as lines of strange, unfamiliar code scrolled across his screen—code written in an architectural style he hadn't seen in twelve years.

Daniel Hayes.

The name flashed in Derek's mind like a bolt of lightning.

"It's a ghost," Derek whispered, his face draining of color.

"What did you say?" Rossi demanded, drawing a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster.

"Get the guards," Derek ordered, his voice rising in panic. "Seal every exit from the basement to the roof. Whoever is down in that vault is trying to pull our entire financial history. If they get those files to the federal task force, we're all doing twenty-to-life!"

Before Rossi could reach the intercom, the office lights flickered once, twice, and then died completely. The emergency red backup strobes kicked on, casting long, bloody shadows across the luxury penthouse.

From the ceiling speakers, instead of the alarm klaxon, a familiar, deep, gravelly voice echoed through the empty offices and hallways of the building—a voice Derek hadn't heard since the night at the Grand Wilshire Hotel.