Every night at exactly 10:09, Chicago’s most feared underworld boss followed the same rule:

The autumn dawn broke over Chicago in a cold, slate-gray wash of mist and diesel exhaust.

By noon, the surgery was underway. Through the frosted glass observation deck above Surgical Suite 4, I watched Dr. Arthur Vance and his team of six specialists work beneath the high-intensity halogen lamps, their movements rhythmic, silent, and surgically devastating.

For four hours, I sat in the waiting room with my fingers laced together, staring at the white acoustic ceiling tiles until my eyes burned.

At 2:15 PM, the double doors of the surgical corridor swung open.

Dr. Vance walked out, his surgical mask hanging loosely around his neck, his face pale with exhaustion but his eyes clear. He spotted me immediately, walking across the waiting room with an unhurried, patrician stride.

"Miss Parker?"

I stood up so fast my chair squeaked against the vinyl floor. "Doctor?"

Vance offered a tired, genuine smile—the first warmth I had seen from a medical authority in eight months. "The tumor margin was clean. We achieved complete macroscopic resection without damaging the primary speech or motor corridors. Your mother is in the post-anesthesia recovery unit. If her intracranial pressure remains stable through the night, she will be awake and speaking by tomorrow morning."

The air left my chest in a long, shuddering sob. I covered my face with my hands, my shoulders shaking as eight months of terror dissolved into the cold hospital air.

"Thank you," I choked out through my fingers. "Thank you, Dr. Vance."

"Don't thank me, Miss Parker," Vance said quietly, lowering his voice as two nurses walked past. "Thank the man who called my private residence at two a.m. and informed me that if I didn't perform this surgery personally, he would buy my country club and turn the eighteenth green into a commercial scrap yard."

A faint, breathless laugh escaped my lips despite the tears. "He really said that?"

"David Prescott does not make idle threats," Vance chuckled dryly, tapping his clipboard. "Now, go get some sleep. You look like you're about to collapse, and your mother will need you sharp when she wakes up."

I left the hospital at four in the afternoon.

The wind off the lake was brutal, whipping through the concrete canyons of Michigan Avenue, driving dry leaves across the pavement. I walked three blocks toward the red line subway station, pulling my coat tight around my throat, my mind drifting between the miracle of my mother's survival and the impossible reality waiting for me at 10:09 PM.

As I turned the corner onto Huron Street, an idling black Lincoln Continental pulled smoothly to the curb, blocking the pedestrian crosswalk.

The rear door swung open.

Standing on the sidewalk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of an expensive camel-wool coat, was a man I had never seen before. He was in his early forties, with slicked-back dark hair, sharp, aristocratic features, and a thin, cruel smile that carried zero warmth.

Two large men in dark leather jackets stepped out from behind the vehicle, flanking my path.

"Miss Madison Parker," the man in the camel coat purred, his voice carrying the smooth, dangerous cadence of a high-end corporate lawyer. "My name is Christian Moretti. I believe you have something that belongs to my family."

My pulse spiked into my throat, but I forced my feet to remain planted on the concrete. I remembered what David had told me: No one survives in this city by showing their throat to wolves.

"I don't know you, Mr. Moretti," I said, keeping my voice cold and loud enough to attract the attention of a nearby doorman. "And I don't have anything that belongs to you."

Moretti took a slow step forward, his smile sharpening into a razor-thin sneer.

"You have eighty thousand dollars of Prescott Capital funds sitting in the operating account of Northwestern Memorial," he said softly, leaning in until I could smell his expensive cologne—bergamot and bitter smoke. "Funds that were supposed to clear our secondary debt liens on the Calumet terminal. David Prescott thinks he can use a little dry-cleaner girl to play white knight and embarrass my father's board."

"Mr. Prescott paid for my mother's life," I fired back, my chin lifting in defiance. "If your business depends on extorting dying women in hospital beds, you're not a businessman, Mr. Moretti. You're a vulture."

One of the leather-jacketed men took an aggressive step toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my arm.

Before his fingers could graze my sleeve, a heavy, concussive THUD echoed across the sidewalk.

A black Cadillac Escalade had just rammed the rear bumper of Moretti’s Lincoln at twenty miles an hour, crushing the trunk panel and setting off a blaring car alarm.

The driver's door of the Escalade flew open.

Marcus stepped out into the afternoon light, holding a heavy, matte-black Glock 19 at low ready, his eyes burning with absolute, lethal certainty. Behind him, two armed operatives in tactical wool coats fanned out across the curb, cutting off Moretti’s men with military precision.

"Step away from the young lady, Christian," Marcus commanded, his voice dropping into a register that made the pedestrians across the street freeze in terror.

Christian Moretti didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed to slits as he raised both hands in a mocking gesture of compliance.

"Marcus," Moretti sneered. "David has you playing chauffeur for the help now?"

"David has me executing protective covenants," Marcus replied smoothly, stepping between Moretti and me like an immovable wall of dark wool. "And if you or your dogs are within three blocks of Miss Parker or Northwestern Hospital after five o'clock today, David won't call the police. He will call the port authority fire marshal to inspect your fuel tanks in Gary."

Moretti’s jaw tightened. He looked past Marcus’s broad shoulder, his dark eyes locking onto mine with venomous hatred.

"This isn't over, Miss Parker," Moretti whispered. "David Prescott breaks every toy he brings into that house. Ask Victoria where she is sleeping tonight."

With a sharp wave of his hand, Moretti signaled his men, stepped back into his crumpled Lincoln, and sped away down Huron Street, tires squealing against the asphalt.