The white marble table felt unusually cold beneath Dominic’s palms. The small pediatric hospital bracelet bearing the name Rose Reyes lay between his untouched cup of tea and the cream-colored envelope like a physical piece of evidence from a trial he thought he had won years ago

The wind howling off Boston Harbor cut through Dominic’s tailored suit like a razor blade, but he didn't flinch. He walked steadily across the rain-slicked tarmac of the ambulance bay, ignoring the flashing red lights of an incoming paramedic van as it screeched to a halt near the sliding doors.

Instead of heading back inside, Dominic turned sharply toward the concrete stairwell entrance of the South Boston General parking garage.

The structure was a multi-level concrete monolith built in the late seventies—brutally utilitarian, poorly lit, and filled with blind corners and echoing shadows.

He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't need to. In the criminal underworld of Boston, men like Dominic Ashford didn't hunt their prey with noise; they hunted them with inevitability.

He climbed the concrete stairs to level two, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the damp floor. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, stale rain, and the distinct metallic tang of cold concrete.

By the time he reached the ramp leading to level three, his earpiece chimed quietly with Victor’s voice.

“Boss, they’re moving toward the northern stairwell. They think they have a clear line of sight down to the emergency entrance triage doors.”

“Let them think it,” Dominic murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the city lights in the distance. “Are our perimeter boys in position?”

“Alvarez and Miller are cutting off the southern exits. Nobody leaves this garage on four wheels or two legs unless we say so.”

“Good.”

Dominic stepped out onto the open-air deck of level three.

The wind whipped across the concrete expanse, carrying a flurry of fine snow that melted instantly upon impact. Across the expanse of parked sedans and SUVs, three figures clad in heavy dark jackets stood near the concrete safety barrier. One of them held a long, black metallic case resting on the waist-high ledge—a dismantled high-precision rifle, being assembled piece by piece in the dim amber glow of the overhead sodium lights.

The man in the center—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar cutting across his left ear—stopped what he was doing and slowly straightened up as he heard the steady, unhurried click of Dominic’s shoes against the floor.

He turned around, a cold, ugly smile spreading across his face.

“Well, well,” the man rasped, his voice echoing off the concrete pillars. “If it isn't the king of South Boston taking a late-night stroll.”

Dominic stopped twenty feet away, his hands resting casually inside his coat pockets. He didn't look at the rifle; he looked directly into the man’s eyes.

“Klaus,” Dominic said, his tone flat and devoid of surprise. “I thought your crew dissolved after the docks raid last winter.”

“Some weeds don't die easily, Ashford,” Klaus snarled, stepping away from the ledge while his two associates smoothly unzipped their jackets, revealing suppressed submachine guns tucked into tactical shoulder holsters. “You thought you could wipe out our shipping lanes and walk away clean? You thought because you started playing nursemaid to orphans that we forgot who put us in the dirt?”

“You were stupid enough to come back to my city,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into that quiet, glacial register that always preceded violence. “And even stupider to bring a gun to a hospital.”

“This isn't about the city anymore,” Klaus laughed, stepping forward as his two goods fanned out to flank Dominic on either side. “Word on the street is you were spotted at the Ivory Cup tonight with a couple of brats and a hospital chart. We figured if we take out the nurse who’s been digging into your corporate archives, and leave her body right here in your backyard... your whole empire of charity and clean hands will come crashing down.”

Dominic didn't blink. But at the mention of Elena’s name, the temperature in the parking garage dropped another ten degrees.

“You shouldn't have said her name, Klaus,” Dominic whispered.

Before Klaus could raise his weapon, the reinforced steel doors of the northern stairwell slammed open with a deafening crash.

Victor and two armed operatives poured out of the stairwell like a tidal wave, weapons raised, laser sights painting glowing red dots across the chests of Klaus’s two associates before they could even unholster their firearms.

“Drop the iron!” Victor roared, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls.

Klaus panicked, his hand diving toward his shoulder holster, but Dominic moved faster than humanly possible.

In a single fluid motion, Dominic closed the twenty-foot gap between them, swept Klaus’s legs out from under him with brutal efficiency, and slammed the assassin’s face hard against the concrete floor. The impact echoed like a gunshot. Klaus groaned once, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness took him.

The two associates froze, looking at Victor’s laser sights trained dead-center on their foreheads, then down at their unconscious leader.

They slowly raised their hands, letting their submachine guns clatter to the concrete floor.

Dominic stood up, straightening his cuffs, his breathing completely even. He looked down at the bleeding assassin, then over at Victor.

“Tie them up and throw them in the back of the transport van,” Dominic ordered coldly. “Take them to the warehouse on 6th Street. I’ll deal with them after I finish my shift at the hospital.”

Victor gave a sharp nod. “And the girl, boss?”