The Black Wind Bar had transformed from an upscale establishment into a powder keg, seconds away from explosion. Sonny Ridge's enforcers circled closer, weapons gleaming, their faces set with the grim determination of men who knew they'd crossed a line but were committed to seeing it through.Atlas Lancaster watched the scene unfold with calculating eyes. He'd voiced his support for fairness, made his position clear—but the Lancaster family didn't survive generations of power by getting involved in underworld brawls. There was a difference between using influence and getting blood on expensive suits."Mr. Steel," Atlas said carefully, backing toward the VIP section's stairs, "I've done what I can. The rest is between you and Ridge. The Lancaster family supports justice, but we don't interfere in... operational disputes."Several other wealthy patrons followed Atlas's lead, suddenly remembering urgent appointments elsewhere. The crowd thinned rapidly, leaving behind only those too curi

Sonny Ridge bolted toward the back hallway that led to his private office, his survival instincts finally overriding his wounded pride. If he could just reach his safe—the submachine gun he kept for emergencies—he could turn this disaster around.Behind him, the sounds of fighting continued—Aaron Jackson methodically dismantling his remaining men, Dom Martinez breaking bones with professional efficiency. But Sonny's focus was singular: get the weapon, regain control, kill everyone who'd witnessed his humiliation.He burst through his office door, slamming it behind him and racing to the wall safe hidden behind a painting of a dragon. His fingers fumbled with the combination—once, twice, finally the lock clicked open.The MP5 submachine gun gleamed inside, pristine and deadly. Sonny grabbed it with shaking hands, checked the magazine—thirty rounds, more than enough—and turned toward the door with manic relief.This was it. His salvation. Aaron Jackson might be legendary, but legends di

Maurice Yarrow sat in the back of his Mercedes S-Class as it roared down the Reilly Expressway, his face flushed with anticipation. Beside him, his most trusted lieutenants shared his excitement—finally, after years of careful maneuvering, Aaron Jackson was trapped."Sonny said they had Jackson cornered at Black Wind," his second-in-command, Vincent Cross, reported with satisfaction. "Tiger's with him. Between the two of them and our men, Jackson won't make it out alive.""This is it," Yarrow said, unable to contain his grin. "Once Jackson's gone, Grayson City opens up completely. His territory, his operations, his connections—all ours for the taking."His phone rang, and Yarrow answered eagerly, expecting confirmation of Aaron's death. "Is it done? Tell me Jackson's—""This is Marcus Steel," a calm voice interrupted. "I believe you're looking for your deputy manager, Sonny Ridge?"Yarrow's grin froze. "Who the hell is—""The man who just destroyed your Black Wind operation," Marcus c

They walked to the elevator in silence, the crowd parting before them like water. As the doors closed, Quinn looked at Marcus with complicated emotions—shock, concern, and underneath it all, something that might have been pride.Oliver pushed himself up, one hand clutching his destroyed face. Blood dripped between his fingers. His fury overrode the pain, the humiliation, the shock of what had just happened."SOMEONE GET ME GRANDFATHER!" Oliver roared. "NOW!"Fifteen minutes later, Oliver burst into Zachary Hartford's office, his face a mess of blood and swelling. The patriarch looked up from his desk, his expression shifting from annoyance to alarm."What happened to you?""Marcus Steel!" Oliver's voice came out distorted through his swollen jaw. "He attacked me! In front of everyone! Assaulted me on company property!"He launched into a frantic explanation—Quinn's attempt to make Marcus her secretary, Oliver's rightful refusal, Marcus's violent response. He painted himself as the vic

The voice dripped with vindictive satisfaction. Marcus and Quinn turned to find Riley Ridge approaching, his face still showing faint bruising from their last encounter. But Riley wasn't alone.Beside him walked a young man who radiated entitled arrogance from every pore. He was perhaps twenty-four, dressed in designer clothes that screamed expense, his hair styled with obvious effort. But it was his eyes that caught attention—cold, cruel, carrying the kind of casual violence that came from never facing consequences.Behind them, six bodyguards in black suits spread out with professional efficiency."Riley," Marcus said calmly. "Healing well, I see.""No thanks to you," Riley snarled, then gestured eagerly to his companion. "Young Master Potter, this is Marcus Steel—the man I told you about. The one who's been causing all the trouble."Quamaine Potter's eyes swept over Marcus with dismissive assessment, then lingered on Quinn with open appreciation. "So this is the famous Sacred Saint