The Mafia Boss Saved His Mistress First—Then Realized His Wife Was the One He Lost

Viktor Vance sat in a leather armchair in the center of the room, swirling a glass of amber scotch as he watched two of his enforcers work over a captured syndicate lieutenant who had switched sides. A gramophone played a scratchy jazz record in the background, masking the wet, heavy thuds of fists hitting flesh.

“Tell me again, Marco,” Viktor smiled, his voice smooth and oily as he leaned forward. “Did Ethan look surprised when his little mistress needed saving instead of his precious wife?”

Marco spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor, laughing weakly. “You... you think you’ve won, Viktor. Ethan is coming. And when he finds out what you did to Claire—”

“Ethan is a dead man walking,” Viktor interrupted, his smile vanishing as his face hardened into a mask of pure malice. He stood up, adjusting his immaculate silk tie. “For ten years, I’ve played second fiddle to that arrogant bastard. He took the prime shipping lanes, he took the council seats, and he married the only woman in this city with true class. But tonight, I have his wife, I have his ledger, and by morning, I’ll have his entire empire.”

Before Viktor could take another step toward Marco, the heavy metal roll-up door at the far end of the warehouse exploded inward with a deafening screech of twisted steel and shattering glass.

Bang! Crash!

A black armored SUV smashed straight through the barricade, its high-beam headlights slicing through the foggy interior like twin swords of judgment. Before the smoke could even clear, doors flew open on both sides, and half a dozen heavily armed men in matte-black tactical gear poured out, neutralizing Viktor’s guards with ruthless, silent efficiency.

Viktor froze, his glass slipping from his fingers to shatter against the floor.

From behind the armored vehicle, stepping through the haze of exhaust fumes and dust, came Ethan Blackwood.

He wasn't wearing his tuxedo anymore. He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, a heavy holstered rig across his chest, and an expression so terrifyingly devoid of human emotion that even his own men gave him a wide berth.

“You!” Viktor gasped, stumbling backward as he reached for the pistol tucked inside his waistband.

Ethan didn't draw his gun. He simply walked forward, his boots clicking rhythmically against the concrete.

“You broke the truce, Viktor,” Ethan said, his voice cutting through the cavernous room like a razor blade. “You touched what belongs to me.”

“She’s not here, you arrogant prick!” Viktor screamed, pulling his pistol and aiming it squarely at Ethan’s chest. “You want your wife? You want the black ledger back? You kneel right now, sign over your shipping docks in the North Harbor, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you visit her grave before the tide comes in!”

Ethan didn't slow down. He didn't even blink.

With blinding speed, as Viktor pulled the trigger, Ethan sidestepped. The bullet whined past his ear, embedding itself into a steel drum behind him. Before Viktor could readjust his aim, Ethan closed the distance, striking him across the face with the heavy butt of his tactical pistol.

Viktor crashed hard onto the floor, his nose broken, blood pooling instantly across his lip.

Ethan stood over him, pressing the cold barrel of his gun directly between Viktor’s eyes.

“Where is my wife?” Ethan demanded, his voice dangerously low.

“F—fuck you,” Viktor spat, wheezing for air. “You’ll... you’ll never find her. The shipping container is already on a freighter heading out to international waters. She’s locked inside, and the timer on the oxygen seal is running out!”

Ethan’s expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed with a lethal intensity. He looked over at Michael, who was already holding a ruggedized military laptop.

“Boss,” Michael said, tapping furiously on the keyboard. “I’m tracking the GPS beacon from the tracking chip we embedded in Claire’s diamond tennis bracelet last year. The signal is active. It’s coming from Pier 42—the municipal cargo yards.”

Ethan looked back down at Viktor, pressing the barrel a fraction of an inch deeper.

“If she draws a single breath of bad air,” Ethan whispered into Viktor’s ear, “I won't kill you. I’ll hand you over to my dockworkers, and let them see how many pieces a man can be cut into before he stops screaming.”