741 "I will never forget the moment I walked into that nursery and saw a billionaire’s dying son do something no doctor, no specialist, and no amount of money had been able to make him do. Minutes later, his father was pointing a gun straight at my head. He believed I was stealing his child. He had no idea I was the only reason his son was still alive.

The warehouse at Pier 42 smelled of salt water, rust, and oil. The dark waters of the East River slapped rhythmically against the wooden pilings beneath the floorboards.

Marcus Miller stood beneath a single flickering overhead light, holding an old leather bag, a heavy 9mm pistol tucked into his waistband. He was sweating profusely, repeatedly looking at his watch.

At 11:58 PM, the heavy corrugated iron doors groaned open.

I stepped into the warehouse alone, wearing a long dark trench coat, my hands resting casually in my pockets. Behind me, the doors slid shut with a heavy, metallic thud.

"You actually came," Marcus laughed nervously, pulling his gun and aiming it at my chest. "Where’s the money, Rossi?"

"There is no money, Marcus," I said, stepping into the circle of light.

Marcus’s face darkened with rage. "You playing games with me?! I’ll destroy her! I’ll destroy that pathetic little girl! She thought she could escape me—"

"She didn't escape you," I interrupted, taking another step forward. "I pulled her out of the trash heap you left her in. And now I’m here to collect the debt you owe her."

Marcus raised the gun to aim between my eyes. "One step closer and I put a hole in your expensive suit!"

Before his finger could tighten on the trigger, a red laser dot appeared dead-center on Marcus’s forehead. Then another appeared on his chest. Then four more from the dark rafters above.

Dominic and five of my top marksmen stepped out of the shadows, their weapons fully trained on him.

Marcus’s gun hand began to shake uncontrollably. His face drained of all color. "What... what is this?"

I walked up to him, took the pistol from his trembling fingers, and tossed it into the dark river water through a crack in the floorboards. I snatched the leather bag containing Hannah’s family heirlooms from his grip.

Then, I leaned down into his ear.

"Your warrants in New York have been processed," I whispered softly. "You are being transferred to a federal maximum-security facility in upstate New York tonight. You will spend the next thirty years in a six-by-eight concrete box. If you ever say Hannah’s name again, the guards inside that facility—who are all on my payroll—will ensure you never speak again."