Blackridge never truly slept. Even before dawn, the docks breathed with the rhythm of cranes, diesel fumes, and the sea’s slow anger. Ethan Cross watched from the shadow of a warehouse as a convoy of trucks rolled toward Pier 12 — Santoro’s last known shipment route. He had counted twenty-three guards, half in uniforms that looked legitimate from a distance.He spoke into the comm clipped inside his collar.“Team B, hold fire until the third truck clears the gate. I want the driver alive.”From a rooftop, Ramirez’s voice crackled back. “Copy that, boss.”The word boss still sounded strange to Ethan. He’d spent years hiding behind the role of a husband too quiet to matter. Now his wife’s family soldiers obeyed his smallest gesture. He should have felt triumph. Instead he felt a gnawing stillness — the old stillness that came before bloodshed.He crouched, eyes narrowing on the pier. Every move was a memory: coordinates, escape angles, wind direction. The Warlord inside him had never di

That night Sirens wailed across the waterfront; helicopters carved pale halos of light over the charred remains of the Valente estate. Inside the penthouse that had once been Isabella Valente’s sanctuary, Ethan Cross stood alone, watching smoke climb over the skyline like a dark prayer. The carpet was still stained with blood from the council betrayal. A dozen of the most powerful men in the city had fallen beneath his calculated wrath—men who thought they could outplay the “useless son-in-law.” Now, their absence left a vacuum no one dared to fill. He heard footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. “I didn’t come for permission.” Ava stepped into the room, wrapped in her father’s long coat. The faint scent of rain clung to her hair. Her eyes darted across the room—to the shattered decanter, the bullet holes in the wall, the silence that felt heavier than death itself. “You killed them all.” “I did what had to be done.” “You slaughte

The Bureau called it Operation Black Ash, and before sunrise, the city was on lockdown.Checkpoints sprouted like weeds at every bridge and tunnel. The Valente compound was sealed under “public safety” orders, and the news outlets ran a single headline for twenty-four hours:WANTED: ETHAN CROSS – Armed and Extremely Dangerous.They described him as a mercenary turned crime lord, a war criminal in hiding. They said he had killed federal agents. They didn’t say he had saved the city from burning.Inside an abandoned church near the docks, Ethan watched the coverage in silence. His coat hung open, his hands wrapped in gauze. He had barely slept since the confrontation with Pierce. When the camera caught his face on the newsfeed, something inside him almost laughed.He had worn a hundred uniforms. Now the whole world was his battlefield.Juno entered, dragging a duffel bag and dropping it near the altar. “You’re famous again,” he muttered. “Every cop and assassin from here to Boston’s sni

Rain lashed against the cracked windshield of a rusted sedan that had seen better decades. Ethan sat behind the wheel, his reflection fractured in the glass, the night city sprawled before him like a living wound. Neon lights bled into puddles. Sirens screamed in the distance. Somewhere, a man begged for mercy; somewhere else, another forgot he ever had a soul.It had been three weeks since the docks. Three weeks since the Bureau’s ambush — since bullets had torn through steel and smoke, since Ava’s terrified eyes had met his across the chaos.Three weeks since Ethan Cross, the quiet son-in-law, had died.Now, the city whispered another name for him.The Phantom Detective.No one had seen his face. No one knew where he slept. But the underworld trembled at the trail he left — trafficking rings dismantled overnight, blackmail empires turned to ash, corrupt officials dragged into daylight by their own confessions. He was methodical. Ruthless. Unstoppable.The warlord had turned his mind

The morning broke pale and heavy, a sky the color of gunmetal hanging over the city. Ethan hadn’t slept. He sat in the motel’s single chair, elbows on his knees, watching the gray light crawl across the floor. Ava had fallen asleep on the bed hours ago, exhaustion finally overtaking fear.She looked younger when she slept. Innocent. But innocence was a myth here—like peace, like mercy.Ethan’s phone vibrated on the table. A secure number. He answered without greeting. “You should’ve left the girl, Cross.”Crow’s voice. Calm. Measured. “You think saving her changes anything? Don Valente’s empire was ashes before you got there.”Ethan didn’t reply. He listened. Every syllable from Crow’s mouth was a map. “They hit his accounts at dawn. Offshore holdings, laundering fronts, everything. The Bureau’s moving faster than even I expected. You made it easier for them by killing half my agents.”Ethan’s jaw tightened. “You overplayed your hand. The Bureau doesn’t destroy assets unless they’ve