Five Minutes to Midnight

“End of the line, Marcus,”

The deep, resonant voice echoed off the concrete walls of the warehouse, bouncing so loudly it sounded like it came from everywhere at once.

Marcus froze mid-reach, his hand hovering over the stack of cash. Thomas let out a high-pitched squeak of sheer terror, dropping his briefcase to the floor.

From the shadows of the upper catwalks, floodlights suddenly snapped on, blinding everyone on the ground floor with a brilliant, harsh white glare.

“L-Lory?!” Thomas stammered, spinning around and staring up into the light.

Dominic Moretti stepped to the edge of the catwalk rail, resting his rifle casually across his forearm. Behind him, Viktor and half a dozen elite guards emerged from the dark, their weapons locked and loaded, pointing straight down at the traitors.

“Twelve years, Thomas,” Lorenzo’s voice dripped with quiet, lethal venom. “I trusted you with my accounts, my schedule, my home. And you sold it all to a third-rate punk like Marcus Vane for a slice of my pie.”

Marcus Vane tried to reach for his pistol, but before his fingers even grazed the holster, a deafening crack shattered the air.

*Bang.*

A bullet slammed into the concrete floor precisely one inch from Marcus’s leather shoe, sending a spray of sharp stone fragments into his ankle. Marcus shrieked, stumbling backward and falling flat on his back.

“Make one more move, Marcus,” Lorenzo said coldly, “and the next one goes through your skull.”

The two armed thugs flanking Marcus dropped their weapons instantly, raising their hands high into the air as Viktor’s tactical unit swarmed down the metal stairs like a wave of dark steel.

Within thirty seconds, Marcus Vane and Thomas were zip-tied face-down on the concrete floor, surrounded by armed guards.

Up on the catwalk, Evelyn exhaled a long, shaky breath she felt like she’d been holding for ten minutes. Her hands were trembling, but a fierce, triumphant rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins.

Lorenzo turned away from the rail and walked over to her.

He didn't say anything at first. He simply looked down at her—really looked at her—not as a desperate waitress begging for tips, not as a panicked civilian caught in crossfire, but as a proven equal in a world where loyalty was the rarest currency on earth.

“You called it right,” Lorenzo said quietly. “The rot was right inside the house.”

“My father taught me,” Evelyn replied, a faint, weary smile touching her lips. “Never trust a gambler who won't show you his cards.”

Lorenzo extended his hand once more.

This time, Evelyn didn't hesitate. She placed her hand firmly in his, shaking it with absolute confidence.

Down below, Chicago’s underworld was burning to the ground, and the Vane syndicate was being dismantled piece by piece. But standing there on the catwalk, high above the smoke and the wreckage, Evelyn Carter knew one thing for certain: