The SUV thundered down Lower Wacker Drive, its headlights cutting through the dim concrete tunnels that ran beneath Chicago’s polished streets. Marcus gripped the wheel tight, weaving through delivery trucks and midnight taxis like a phantom.In the back seat, Elias sat with the battered leather bag resting on his lap, the proof of everything. Beside him, Mara stared straight ahead, her breathing shallow but steady. Lena, in the front passenger seat, kept her eyes on the side mirrors, scanning for any sign they were being tailed.No one spoke for a long time. The city above them was waking up — early commuters, delivery bikes, the first rush of white-collar foot traffic. But down here, in the half-lit arteries under Chicago’s glass towers, Elias could almost hear his mother’s voice clearer than ever: Finish what I started.“Where do we take this?” Lena asked finally, turning to face him.Elias tapped the bag with his fingers. The folders inside felt heavier than any gun he’d ever carr

Elias reflection stared back at him in the glass: black suit, dark eyes, the faint scar hidden beneath his hairline — the mark that connected him to Amelia Kane’s legacy like a hidden wire. The world outside still thought a janitor couldn’t hold an empire. They were about to learn otherwise.Behind him, Lena paced like a restless wolf, her boots clicking on the floor. A fresh file lay open on the conference table, pages covered in numbers, names — Crane’s old offshore accounts, Councilman Reid’s signed confessions, bribes, hush contracts. And somewhere tangled in that paper trail were the roots of the Voss family’s fortune.Marcus leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. He’d traded his Syndicate jacket for a dark blazer these days — half bodyguard, half second-in-command. He nodded to the windows. “Press is out there already. They want a statement.”Elias didn’t turn. “They’ll get one when I’m ready.”Lena flipped a page. “Crane’s last known safehouse has been cleared. Your tip to

The hum of KaneTech’s servers thrummed like a heartbeat beneath Elias’s feet. The war room lights glowed low and blue, casting long shadows on the glass walls as dawn broke over Chicago. In the corner, Lena’s fingers flew across a keyboard, rerouting security camera feeds while Marcus hunched over a city map, marking routes in red ink.Elias stood at the head of the table, eyes fixed on a live feed of the private airfield Crane’s men were scrambling to secure. Two SUVs had just rolled in — blacked-out windows, armed guards stepping out like shadows under the floodlights.“He’s running,” Marcus said, voice rough from a night with no sleep. He stabbed his marker at the blinking dot. “Crane’s got a jet waiting on standby. If he takes off, we’ll spend months chasing him across borders.”Elias didn’t move. His reflection glared back at him from the big glass board, ghostly lines of Amelia’s face flickering in his memory. Clean them out, son. No safe haven.“Block the runway,” Elias said. C

Elias Kane barely slept that night. He sat alone in his penthouse office at the top of KaneTech Tower, the city a cold ocean of lights below.The screens in front of him still glowed with Crane’s confession, the Syndicate’s offshore account codes ticking away like a countdown.Every minute, another lawyer called. Every hour, another board member tried to test his resolve. And every time, he shut them down with a single, quiet word: Proceed.Lena leaned against the far wall, her boots kicked up on an unused chair. She’d been awake as long as he had, eyes flicking between her phone and the security feed. Marcus stood by the window, arms folded, watching the street below like he expected Vivian’s private security to come storming through the lobby.A soft knock broke the silence. Elias didn’t flinch. “Come in.”Mara stepped inside.She didn’t bother dressing up for the drama tonight — no designer suit, no diamond earrings. Just a dark coat over her shoulders and her hair loose for the fi

The wind off Lake Michigan battered the upper floors of BrightStar Tower as the city braced for dawn. Inside the top-floor conference room, maps and digital ledgers glowed in the dark, painting the walls with flickers of red and green — a war fought in numbers, ghost corporations, and men who could vanish into private jets before their enemies even knew they were losing.Elias Kane stood alone at the far end of the room, staring at a photo pinned to the digital board. Damian Roarke. There were only three known photographs of him in existence — a grainy black-and-white from a Monaco casino in 2002, a security cam still from an Eastern European tech summit in 2009, and this one: a sharp, color shot of a younger Roarke shaking hands with a smiling Amelia Kane.In the picture, Amelia’s expression was polite but guarded — her eyes, those same flinty eyes Elias had inherited, were cold as steel despite her gracious smile. Roarke’s grin was the opposite: open, charming, teeth just a fraction