Two starving little girls knocked on the door of Chicago’s most feared mafia boss in the middle of a violent storm and asked for food. Gideon Crosswell was about to have his guards take them somewhere safe when the younger child saw the sunflowers on his table and whispered a phrase no one had spoken since his four-year-old daughter died.

The heavy oak front doors of the Crosswell estate did not yield easily to the storm, but when Gideon pulled them open himself, the gale-force wind swept a wave of freezing rain into the marble foyer.

Standing on the covered porch, illuminated by the twin halogen beams of the idling black SUV, were three men.

The two flanking figures were heavy-set enforcement types wearing tactical rain slickers, their hands resting noticeably inside their deep pockets. But the man standing in the center was different. He was thin, unnaturally tall, wearing a tailored charcoal trench coat, holding a clear umbrella over his head. On his right hand, three heavy silver bands glinted under the porch light.

It was Victor Vance—known throughout the Midwest’s criminal underworld as the "Collector," a high-level fixer for the powerful Syndicate that controlled the eastern shipping routes.

“Gideon,” Vance said, his voice smooth and rasping, like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “It’s been a long time. Miserable night for a drive.”

Gideon stepped onto the threshold, his pistol held discreetly behind his right leg. “You’re on private property, Vance. In Chicago, that usually means you have thirty seconds before your body goes into the lake.”

Vance let out a soft, amused chuckle. “Always so direct. I miss the old days when we could negotiate over scotch. But I’m not here to challenge your territory, Crosswell. I’m just here to collect two runaway assets. Two little girls who escaped from one of our holding facilities near Pier 42.”

“They’re children, Vance,” Gideon said, his tone dropping an octave.

“They are witnesses,” Vance corrected, his smile vanishing, replaced by a cold, predatory stare. “And more importantly, they carry property that belongs to my employer. Hand them over, Gideon. You’ve had a quiet year mourning your little girl. Don't ruin your peace over someone else’s trash.”

Gideon took a single step forward, bringing himself directly into the light of the SUV’s beams. The rain hit his face, washing over the hard angles of his jaw.

“The little girl pointed at my sunflowers,” Gideon said quietly. “She called them 'happy flowers.' She told me a story about a man who laughed at a four-year-old girl named Ren before she died.”

Vance’s eyes twitched slightly. For a fraction of a second, the Collector’s smooth, untouchable composure faltered.

“You don't want to dig up that grave, Gideon,” Vance warned, his hand moving slightly within his trench coat. “Ren’s death was an arrangement. A necessary business transaction to keep the waterfront open when you were becoming... uncooperative.”

The world seemed to stop moving.

The rain kept falling, but in Gideon’s mind, everything went deathly quiet. The uncertainty, the guilt, the agonizing self-blame he had carried for twelve agonizing months evaporated, replaced by a dark, absolute clarity.

Ren hadn't died from a tragic mistake. She had been murdered.

“Who gave the order?” Gideon asked softly.

Vance smirked, regaining his arrogance. “You know how the Syndicate works. The men at the top don't sign their names to poison. But if you want a clue... ask yourself why your brother Julian left town so suddenly last spring.”

Before Vance could finish his sentence, Gideon raised his hand and fired.

The suppressed shot was no louder than a sharp clap of thunder. The bullet struck Vance directly through the shoulder, driving the tall man backward onto the wet stone steps.

Instantly, the two guards lunged forward, drawing their weapons, but Marcus and four of Gideon’s elite operators materialized from the shadows of the porch columns like ghosts. A brief, violent exchange of gunfire shattered the night air. Within fifteen seconds, both of Vance’s enforcers were lying motionless on the gravel, and Vance was pinned to the rain-slicked stone, Gideon’s heavy leather boot pressing firmly onto his chest.

Gideon leaned down, pointing the glowing barrel of his weapon straight between Vance’s eyes.

“Where is my brother?” Gideon whispered.

Vance spit blood onto the stone, gasping for breath under the crushing weight of Gideon’s boot. “He’s... he’s at the old grain silo near the south docks. He’s running the distribution hub. He thought... he thought if he gave them your daughter, they’d make him head of the family!”

Gideon stared at the man who had helped destroy his life. He didn't scream. He didn't rage. He simply looked down at Vance with pure, unadulterated contempt.

“Marcus,” Gideon said calmly.