Chapter 15

The private jet flew through the night, landing in New York under the cover of darkness. Dorian did not bring an army. He brought Marcus, Thomas, and four of his most elite, lethal operators. He intended to execute a decapitation strike, not a prolonged war.

The National Commission held their emergency summits in the penthouse of a massive, heavily fortified corporate skyscraper in Manhattan. They believed the height and the layers of expensive private security made them untouchable. They were profoundly mistaken.

Dorian did not attempt to breach the lobby. His team utilized a silent, high-altitude insertion, parachuting directly onto the roof of the skyscraper in the freezing night air. They neutralized the rooftop guards silently, cutting the primary communications grid and plunging the top five floors into absolute darkness.

Dorian kicked open the heavy access door to the stairwell, his suppressed weapon raised. He moved with the terrifying, inevitable grace of a shadow.

They descended to the 80th floor. The emergency backup lights cast a harsh, red glow over the opulent corridors. They reached the heavy mahogany double doors of the main boardroom.

“Breach,” Dorian commanded softly.

The doors blew inward with a concussive roar. The five most powerful Mafia bosses in the country, sitting around a massive glass table, shrieked as smoke and debris filled the room. Their bodyguards drew their weapons, but they were instantly annihilated by the devastating, surgical crossfire from Dorian’s team.

Dorian stepped through the smoke, entirely unharmed, his dark, tailored suit immaculate. He lowered his weapon, his cold, intimidating eyes sweeping over the terrified, trembling bosses cowering in their leather chairs.

“Is this… the tribunal… that authorized a strike on my home?” Dorian whispered, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating.

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