The morning sun barely broke through the thick, grey mist over Queens as two massive, jet-black luxury SUVs pulled up outside the decaying brick apartment building. The street was quiet, smelling of damp asphalt and salt water from the nearby bay.Michael stepped out of the rear passenger seat. He wore a sharp grey bespoke suit, his gold medical mask firmly in place, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes, and butter-soft leather gloves encasing his hands. Beside him, Red Viktor stepped into formation, flanked by two towering Russian security detail officers.They walked up the creaking, narrow wooden staircase to the second floor, stopping at the door of his former home.Michael knocked softly.A middle-aged Mexican woman opened the door, her hair wrapped in a towel, clutching a broom defensively. Her eyes widened at the sight of four towering men in tailored suits standing in her dim hallway.Before she could speak, Michael produced a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket