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As for Chad Wellington IV.

Looking at this whimpering insect still begging for mercy, the rage in my chest crystallized into pure brutality.

"Tony."

I turned toward the door. Didn't even bother looking at him again. "Sever his Achilles tendons. Shatter his kneecaps. And before sunrise, I want the SEC and IRS to tear Wellington Hedge Fund apart—money laundering, insider trading, everything. Make the evidence airtight. I want the Wellington family bankrupt overnight. Buried in debt they'll never crawl out from under."

"As for this son of a bitch," I yanked open the heavy iron door. Cold wind and the reek of blood hit my face. "Throw him in the state maximum security prison. General population with the Latin gangs serving life. Pay off the guards. Don't let him die. I want every single second of the rest of his miserable life to be hell on earth."

"Understood, Don."

Tony nodded, emotionless. Behind me came the dull crunch of iron crushing bone, followed by Chad's throat-shredding howls.

But that scream didn't touch the agony ripping through my chest.

I strode toward the waiting Maybach, already dialing Rocco, who was coordinating the intelligence network back in Manhattan. "Rocco, I'm heading to St. Mary's now, but just in case—take your crew and backtrack every place Ruby's been the last few days!"

"Copy that, Don. Intel team's already tapped into the satellite system."

I nodded. "Good."

But fate doesn't hand out second chances.

Half an hour later, the Maybach pulled up to St. Mary's Hospital in a downpour.

I stormed into the ER. Grabbed a nurse by the collar. Got handed a cold receipt in return.

"Mary Caldwell's surgery was paid in full yesterday." The nurse stared at my blood-soaked clothes and barely contained violence. "As for the young Ms. Caldwell... she arranged long-term care, then left. Didn't leave any contact information."

Yesterday.

Not even twenty hours ago, and she was gone.

Rocco's call shredded the silence of the corridor. "Don, got it... Newark Airport departure records. She booked a one-way ticket two days ago. Changed planes in Frankfurt, then Brussels, then Milan. Last entry stamp was Venice. But after Venice, all electronic traces vanished—she turned off her phone, deleted her social media, never used a credit card again."

"Find her! Check every connecting flight! Mobilize every crew we've got in Europe!!" I roared into the phone, veins bulging at my temples, teeth nearly cracking.

Then my earpiece was hijacked by an emergency encrypted channel. The head of our Long Island docks—his voice had gone to hell. Explosions and automatic gunfire screamed in the background.

"Don! We've got a situation!!"

"DeLuca's allied with three outside gangs from Brooklyn and Philly—old Vincenzo mobilized South American mercenaries! They hit us while you were out of Manhattan—took out six of our armories, the third pier on Long Island's under mortar fire! Domenico's estate in Tuscany just got bombed! They're trying to wipe out the entire Moretti family!!"

The fluorescent lights in the hallway spun violently in my vision.

The enemy's assault came like a tidal wave, tearing out the Moretti family's throat at the most critical moment.

On one side—Ruby, wounded and far away, disappeared without a trace. On the other—the family's survival hanging by a thread in an all-out war.

I clenched my fists. Nails digging into flesh. Closed my eyes. A guttural, wounded sound ripped from my throat.

If I abandoned everything now and went to Europe to find her, DeLuca's guns would follow my trail and grind both her and the undefended family into meat.

I had to settle the enemy first.

I had to wash the entire East Coast clean before I could bring my rose home.

"Rocco." I opened my eyes. Nothing left inside but apocalyptic violence and deathly calm. "Arm everyone. Starting tonight, New York doesn't need a second Mafia family."