Alexander's world had narrowed to the empty pit before him. The carefully maintained graves he'd visited in his mind for five years—the promise that had sustained him through battles and bloodshed—were gone. Only muddy earth remained, littered with construction debris and shattered ceramic fragments.He knelt slowly, picking up a piece of pottery. Part of his mother's urn. His fingers trembled.The roar of engines shattered the cemetery's silence. Three black SUVs tore down the dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. They skidded to a stop near the grave site, and doors flew open.A dozen bodyguards emerged, dressed in black tactical gear, swaggering toward the destroyed graves like they owned the cemetery itself.Alexander didn't move. His eyes tracked the leader—a tall man with a scar running down his left cheek, wearing an expensive leather jacket.Derek Morrison. His stepmother's head of security. Former underground fighting champion with a record of forty-three

The temperature in the Grand Marquis ballroom plummeted. It wasn't the air conditioning—it was something far more primal. An oppressive weight pressed down on every person in the room, making hearts race and palms sweat despite the opulent surroundings.Robert Thompson's mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing like a fish drowning in air. His face cycled through shock, disbelief, and then volcanic rage."You." His voice came out strangled. "You... you're supposed to be DEAD!"Victoria stumbled backward, one hand clutching her throat. "No. No, this isn't possible. You died. They told us you died!"Alexander Kane stood at the entrance, his expression carved from ice. Behind him, Colonel Marcus Bennett stepped forward, a polished wooden coffin balanced effortlessly on his shoulder."Hello, Uncle Robert. Stepmother." Alexander's voice was soft, almost conversational. "Did you miss me?""You BASTARD!" Robert's roar shattered the stunned silence. He stormed forward, finger jabbing tow

Robert Thompson clawed his way upright, one hand pressed against his bruised ribs. His face twisted with pain, but something darker burned in his eyes—desperation mixed with vicious triumph. His fingers found his phone, and he pressed a button.The back entrance of the ballroom crashed open.Dozens of men flooded through—massive, scarred thugs in leather and denim, each one built like a linebacker. They carried tire irons, chains, and brass knuckles. These weren't corporate security guards. These were street enforcers, the kind of men who made problems disappear permanently.The crowd gasped, pressing even further against the walls.Robert straightened, wincing but grinning through the pain. His reinforcements formed a wall of muscle and menace between him and Alexander. The balance of power had shifted, and Robert knew it."Well, well, well." Robert's voice regained its arrogant edge. "Not so tough now, are you, nephew?"Victoria scrambled to her feet, her earlier terror transforming

The screech of tires on pavement cut through the night like a blade. Then another. And another. The sound multiplied until it seemed like an army was descending on the Grand Marquis Hotel.Robert's face lit up with desperate hope. "They're here! Finally!"Through the ballroom's tall windows, headlights blazed—military vehicles forming a perimeter around the building. Helicopter searchlights swept across the grounds, bathing everything in harsh white light.The main doors burst open.Soldiers poured through in perfect formation—crisp uniforms, polished boots, weapons at the ready. Thirty, forty, fifty of them, spreading throughout the ballroom with military precision. The guests pressed against the walls, some raising their hands instinctively.And at the head of this force strode a man who commanded attention like gravity itself.General Bradley Hawthorne was sixty but looked forty-five—iron-gray hair cut military short, a jaw that could have been carved from granite, and eyes like ch