632 A six-year-old girl carrying one infant and pushing another in a broken stroller offered me every coin she had to buy formula, never knowing I was Milwaukee’s most feared crime boss—and I never imagined that saving those three children would eventually bring my oldest enemy back from the dead.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Marcus hadn't just tried to kill me; he was playing with psychological torment. He wanted me to open my cold, heartless life to a family, to feel warmth for the first time in twenty years, only to tear it out of my chest.

Before I could answer, the lights in the hospital flickered and died. Emergency red backup lights burst to life, casting an eerie crimson glow across the ICU.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Suppressed gunfire erupted from the hallway outside. I pulled my custom Kimber .45 from my shoulder holster in one fluid motion, shoving Hannah's bed behind the reinforced steel door frame.

"Stay down!" I commanded.

The door burst open. Two men in tactical gear with night-vision goggles swept into the room. I fired three rounds in rapid succession—two to the first man's chest plates, one under his helmet line. He dropped instantly. The second shooter swung his submachine gun toward Hannah, but I closed the distance, grabbing the barrel, forcing it upward as a hail of bullets shredded the ceiling tiles.

I slammed my elbow into his jaw, spun him around, and drove my tactical knife straight through his body armor into his shoulder. He screamed, dropping the weapon.

I pulled off his mask. It was a face I didn't recognize—a young mercenary for hire.

"Who sent you?" I growled, pressing the point of the blade against his throat.

"Vance..." he gasped through blood. "He... he said... to leave the woman... take the girl..."