The Don Returns

Thirty-one thousand feet above Atlanta, a Gulfstream G700 sliced through heavy cloud cover.

Inside the cabin, walnut paneling and hand-stitched leather seats whispered of money—the kind that didn't need to announce itself.

This aircraft represented the pinnacle of modern aviation engineering. Seventy-eight million dollars' worth of machinery. To Viktor Morti, it was pocket change.

A single hair from the beast.

He held a glass of thirty-year Macallan single malt and watched cotton-candy clouds roll beneath him like an ocean with no shore.

To the world above, he was legitimate. To the world below, he was the uncrowned king of the entire Eastern Seaboard. Three casinos that laundered more money than most banks. Five trucking companies. A construction syndicate that stretched from New York to Montreal. Real estate holdings you couldn't count if you tried.

Today, he was flying to Washington to meet a United States Senator.

"Going clean" sounded cheap. But that's exactly what he was doing.

One meeting. One handshake. And Morti Enterprises would ring the opening bell on Wall Street.

Viktor Morti—former street enforcer, former killer, former ghost—would become a billionaire. Respectable. Legitimate.

Untouchable.

"How long to Dulles?" Viktor asked, not looking up from his glass.

"Twenty minutes, Boss."

The man across from him was Eddie Fischer.

Viktor's underboss. His right hand. The kid he'd run with since they were teenagers stealing car radios in Newark. Eddie had taken a shotgun blast meant for Viktor. Done federal time to keep Viktor's name out of an indictment. Dumped bodies into the Atlantic when the sun came up.

Viktor trusted Eddie more than he trusted his own brother.

"Nervous?" Eddie smiled, offering a Partagás cigar.

Viktor took it. Let Eddie light it with a torch. He pulled deep, exhaled blue smoke, and shook his head. "What do I got to be nervous about? Those Capitol Hill pricks took our money. Now they'll pave the road. That's how it works."

Eddie smiled. Looked down. Slipped the torch back into his jacket.

When he looked up again, the smile was gone.

The Glock came up smooth. Suppressor already attached. Aimed dead-center at Viktor's forehead.

Viktor's hand froze mid-air, cigar still burning between his fingers. His pupils contracted.

"Eddie. This isn't funny."

"It's not a joke, Viktor." Eddie's hand didn't shake. His voice didn't waver. "The Senator prefers a black-market operator who stays in the shadows. Someone controllable. Someone who knows his place. He doesn't want a partner. He doesn't want you sitting at his table. You got too big. You got too dirty. And now you're trying to go clean."

Viktor laughed once. Bitter. Hollow.

He didn't reach for the pistol at his waist. If Eddie had pulled his gun, the bodyguards outside the cabin door were already dead.

"What'd they offer you?"

"Everything you built. And my life."

Eddie pulled the trigger.

Pfft.

The suppressed shot barely made a sound.

The bullet tore through Viktor's forehead. No time for pain. Just pressure. Heat. Darkness.

Thirty-year Macallan mixed with blood, splashing across the wool carpet. Viktor's body slumped into the leather seat. His vision collapsed inward, a tunnel closing to black.

The last thing he saw was Eddie's face. Cold. Empty.

Twenty years of empire. Twenty years of brotherhood.

Worth one nine-millimeter bullet.

Two dollars' worth of lead.

If there was a next life—

If there was any justice left in this godforsaken world—

"Jesus Christ, Viktor! Open your eyes! You're scaring the hell out of me!"

A voice. Hoarse. Desperate. Cracking with panic.

It hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull.

Viktor's eyes snapped open. He bolted upright, gasping, chest heaving, hands clawing at his face. His forehead. No blood. No wound. Just sweat.

Cold. Sticky. Real.

This wasn't the Gulfstream.

He was in a bedroom. Small. Dark. Smelled like mildew and fried chicken grease. Wallpaper peeling. Wooden beams rotting underneath. A ceiling fan squeaked overhead, grinding out the same tired rhythm it had been grinding for decades.

"Oh thank God. Thank God you're awake..."

A woman stood beside the bed. Thin. Exhausted. Wore a faded apron with patches sewn over patches. Hair a mess. Eyes bloodshot. Hands wringing the fabric like she was trying to squeeze water from stone.

Anna Morti.

His mother.

Viktor froze.

In his previous life, Anna had died twenty years ago. Caught in gang crossfire on a Sunday morning. Bled out on a sidewalk while the shooter drove away laughing.

Her death had been the match that lit the fuse.

And now she was standing in front of him. Alive. Breathing. Terrified.

"Mom...?"

His voice came out broken. Raw. Like he'd swallowed glass.

He looked down at his hands. Young. Scarred, but young. No liver spots. No Patek Philippe. No blood under the nails from decades of violence.

He was eighteen again.

"Don't you 'Mom' me!" Anna grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Her voice dropped to a hiss. The kind of desperate whisper people use when they're afraid the walls have ears. "If you still think of me as your mother, you'll get your ass out there and find that little bastard Jack! Right now!"

Her hands shook.

"Santos's crew has been circling the block for the past hour. They've got bats. They've got shotguns. Rico says if he doesn't see that gold chain by sundown, he's gonna beat Jack to death in the street. And then he's gonna sell Maria to a whorehouse downtown."

Her voice cracked.

"Viktor... what are we gonna do? What the hell are we supposed to do?"

The heat of her palms. The sting of her nails. The terror in her voice.

It snapped him back.

Twenty years as a crime boss had taught him one thing: control.

His eyes shifted. The confusion drained away. What replaced it was cold. Calculating. A lake frozen over in winter.

He turned his head toward the window.

Through the broken blinds, he could see it. 1999. Bankhead, Atlanta.

The trap.

One of the most violent neighborhoods in the South. A war zone dressed up as a zip code. Crips. Bloods. Latin Kings. Zetas. Every corner controlled by someone with a gun and a grudge. Shootings every night. Bodies in the morning.

And his family—poor, white, powerless—was living right in the middle of it.

Lambs in a wolf den.

Right now, the wolves were at the door.

Antonio Santos. Local shot-caller. Ran dope for a Texas cartel. His enforcer, Rico, was the kind of psycho who'd beat a man to death just to prove a point.

And apparently, Viktor's thirteen-year-old brother Jack had stolen something he shouldn't have.

"I know, Mom."

Viktor took her hand. His palm was cold. Steady. The kind of calm that made people stop talking and start listening.

Anna blinked. For a second, she didn't recognize her own son. There was something in his eyes. Something that didn't belong in an eighteen-year-old kid from Bankhead.

Something old.

"Close the door. Pull the curtains. Take Maria and Amy into the bathroom. Get in the tub. Stay there. No matter what you hear, don't come out."

He stood. Crossed the room. Opened the bottom drawer of a rotting desk.

Underneath a pile of old comic books and unpaid bills, he found it.

A Taurus PT92. Brazilian-made. 9mm. Five rounds in the magazine.

Cheap. Unreliable. Bought off a street dealer with his last paycheck.

But it would do.

Viktor ejected the mag. Checked the spring tension with his thumb. Slammed it back in. Racked the slide.

The metallic clack echoed in the dark room.

In his past life, he'd been betrayed by the man he trusted most. Shot in the head on a seventy-eight-million-dollar jet.

This time, God had given him a second shuffle.

And the first hand he'd play would be right here. On these blood-soaked streets.

"Santos. Rico."

Viktor tucked the pistol into the back of his jeans. Pulled on a stiff leather jacket. The corner of his mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

The old Don was back.

And this time, nobody was taking anything from him.

Not his family.

Not his life.

Not one goddamn drop of blood.