A charity board member insulted me because of my impoverished appearance—until the auctioneer revealed something that stunned the entire room.

The air in the server room was thick with the acrid smell of explosives and pulverized concrete. The cinematic blue glow of the servers flickered violently. Frank DeLuca stood entirely still in the center of the room, his broad shoulders squared, his wooden cane planted firmly on the floor. He was seventy-two years old, completely surrounded by heavily armed cartel soldiers, yet he was the most dangerous thing in the room.

Richard Vance stepped forward, his polished shoes crunching on the debris. Vance was in his late fifties, fair-skinned and immaculately groomed, possessing a cruel elegance that rivaled Vivienne’s. He looked at the screen displaying Leo’s photograph, then back to Frank.

I have to admit, Vance said, an arrogant smile playing on his lips. I didn't think you would ever figure it out. Vivienne was quite thorough with the paperwork. She charged me fifteen million dollars to wipe the trace.

Vivienne shrank back against the server racks, terrified. She had played both sides of the underworld, thinking she was untouchable above it all in her high-society charity balls. Now, she was trapped between two legendary titans of organized crime.

Where is the boy, Richard? Frank asked, his voice low, steady, and incredibly menacing.

He’s upstairs, Vance replied casually. Sleeping in his dormitory. He has an economics exam tomorrow. He’s brilliant, Frank. Truly. He has your tactical mind and my complete lack of empathy. I’ve raised him to believe the world is a chessboard and everyone on it is disposable. He hates weakness. He hates sentimentality. If you walked up to him right now and told him you were his grandfather, he would probably calculate the financial benefit of having you assassinated.

Frank felt a surge of pure, violent rage in his chest, but he did not let it show on his weathered face. You stole my daughter’s life. You stole my blood. You think you can mold a DeLuca into a cartel dog?

I already have, Vance chuckled. I came here tonight to pick him up. The syndicate is moving operations to Europe. Leo is coming with me. He will take over my empire when I retire. But since you're here, Frank... I think we'll tie up this loose end.

Vance raised his hand, signaling his men to execute Frank and Marco.

But Frank had not survived five decades of warfare by being unprepared. He didn't carry a gun anymore, but Marco did.

Now, Frank commanded softly.

Marco didn't shoot at Vance’s men. He aimed directly up at the ceiling and fired a heavy, high-caliber round into the primary water main running directly over the server racks.

The pipe exploded. A massive, pressurized torrent of freezing water rained down on the room. The moment the water hit the humming, high-voltage server towers, the entire room erupted in a blinding flash of electrical sparks.

The cartel soldiers screamed as the floor became a live electrical grid. The lights shattered, plunging the room into absolute darkness, lit only by the violent, arcing electricity.

In the chaos, Frank moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed Vivienne by the collar of her suit, hauling her toward the secondary exit door at the back of the room. Marco laid down suppressing fire, the muzzle flashes briefly illuminating the smoke and water.

Vance’s men fired back blindly, the bullets pinging dangerously off the metal servers.

Get to the stairs! Frank yelled to Marco over the deafening noise.

They kicked open the secondary door and bolted up a narrow concrete stairwell leading into the main building of the academy. The sounds of shouting and gunfire echoed behind them. Frank pushed Vivienne ahead of him, his cane surprisingly quiet on the concrete steps.

They burst into the lavish, carpeted hallways of the dormitory wing. The cinematic lighting here was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the violence below. The fire alarms were screaming, the strobe lights flashing intensely. Students in expensive pajamas were stepping out of their rooms, confused and panicked.

Frank scanned the chaotic hallway. He didn't know which room belonged to Leo.

Which one is his? Frank demanded, shaking Vivienne violently.

Room 402! At the end of the hall! she cried, pointing down the long corridor.

Frank sprinted down the hallway, navigating through the panicked teenagers. He reached the heavy oak door of room 402. It was locked. Without hesitation, Frank raised his heavy leather shoe and kicked the door right next to the handle. The wood splintered, and the door flew open.

Frank rushed inside. The room was perfectly neat. A desk sat near the window, covered in advanced calculus textbooks and financial ledgers. The bed was perfectly made.

But the room was completely empty.

He's gone, Marco said, stepping into the room behind Frank, keeping his weapon trained on the hallway. Vance must have had a secondary team pull the boy before he came down to the servers.

Frank stared at the empty bed. He had been hundreds of miles away for twelve years, and now he had missed his grandson by mere minutes.

Frank noticed a piece of heavy, expensive stationary sitting perfectly centered on the boy's desk. He walked over and picked it up.

It was a note, written in incredibly precise, elegant handwriting.

I know who you are, Frank DeLuca. I have monitored your approach since you breached the perimeter. Richard Vance is not my master. And neither are you. Do not follow me.

Frank stared at the burning paper in his hand. The boy wasn't a puppet. He was a prodigy. He had anticipated both Vance and Frank, and he had escaped into the night on his own terms.

Boss, we have heavily armed cartel soldiers moving up the stairwells. We are trapped on the fourth floor, Marco warned, slamming the broken door shut and pressing his body weight against it.

Frank folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket. He looked at the massive glass window overlooking the snowy courtyard four stories below. He gripped his wooden cane.