In the heart of Chicago’s underworld, Dominic Moretti ruled like a silent king. Not loud, not flashy—just terrifyingly effective. His power wasn’t built on fear alone, but on precision and control. Everyone knew not to cross him, except for one man: Vasko “the Butcher.”

Vasko was chaos wrapped in a three-piece suit. Where Moretti ran an empire, Vasko ran a carnival of blood and madness. Their rivalry had spanned years—burnt warehouses, dead informants, whispers in alleyways. But nothing prepared Dominic for the storm that walked into his office on a rainy Tuesday morning.

He was nursing a drink, watching the city drown in grey, when the door creaked open. His hand moved instinctively to the Glock in his drawer.

Instead of a gunman, a kid slipped in—small, soaked, maybe five or six. Dirt smudged her face. A tangle of hair fell in her eyes. She was clutching a manila folder, lips trembling. As soon as she saw him, her eyes widened and she bolted.

Dominic was faster. He caught her by the arm. The folder dropped, papers spilling like wounded birds across the marble floor.

“Whoa—hey, hey,” he said, kneeling down, trying not to scare her more. “What the hell is this?”

She squirmed, crying now, real tears. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—he said I had to! Please don’t hurt me!”

Dominic’s blood ran cold. Around her neck, beneath the filth, was a shock collar—black, crude, the skin beneath red and raw.

“What the hell…” He gently touched the device, and the girl flinched like she’d been hit.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, softer now.

She just sobbed harder, clutching her arms around herself like they were the only safe place left in the world.

A sudden, hot rage surged in Dominic’s chest. He opened the folder. Maps. Routes. Names. All of them his—private stash houses, safe routes, aliases.

Vasko’s fingerprints were all over this.

The bastard had weaponized a child. Not just manipulated her—he’d tortured her, controlled her like a dog on a leash. Used her to infiltrate Dominic’s world.

Dominic picked her up—not roughly, not like the world had. She stiffened at first but didn’t fight. She was exhausted. Light. Too light.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, more to himself than her. “You’re safe now.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing into his expensive coat.

He pressed a button on his desk. “Tony. Get Doc Martinez here. Now.”

Tony, always sharp, didn’t ask questions. Dominic turned back to the window, holding the girl close, and watched the rain smear the city into grey shapes.

This wasn’t business anymore.

This was war.

And Vasko—the psycho who thought using a child would break Dominic—had just made it personal.

He looked down at the little girl in his arms, the collar still around her neck. His jaw clenched.

“You’re not a weapon,” he whispered. “You’re not his. You’re not a tool. You’re just a kid.”

And God help the man who tried to take that from her again.