Chapter 1

My name is Jack Morris. At least, that's what I've been called for the past ten years.

East Coast, Pier Nine.

I pushed along my busted cart, piled high with tags from the cargo that had just been unloaded.

My right leg was bad.

Every step made my knee click.

The dockworkers called me Limping Jack.

But I didn't hate this kind of life.

The sound of the cart wheels crunching over gravel was steady. Dull, numb, free of blood.

VROOOOM—

The roar of an engine ripped through the quiet of the docks.

It was a Ferrari, doing at least eighty.

I stopped the cart on instinct.

Thirty yards away, at the entrance to the scrapyard, Old Frank was bent over picking up glass bottles.

The sports car didn't slow down. Didn't honk.

It came straight at him.

"Frank!"

I didn't even have time to think. I dropped the cart, grabbed the iron chain off the ground, and whipped it at the plastic crate by the old man's feet, slamming it into his leg.

He cried out and crashed to the ground, barely rolling out of the Ferrari's path.

BANG!

The car slammed into the pile of scrap, and the front end flipped my cart over too.

The door opened.

The man who stepped out was wearing a custom-tailored suit, with a scorpion tattoo peeking out at his collarbone.

Luke Harrison, the only son of the biggest mob boss on the East Coast.

He didn't even glance at Old Frank sprawled on the ground. He just crouched down to inspect the front of his car, running a finger over the scrape.

"Fuck!"

He stood up and kicked at the broken glass. A bottle burst apart, and shards sprayed against my pant leg.

I pulled myself upright using the cart handle.

"I'm sorry, sir." I kept my head down, making my voice as humble as I could. "My stuff was blocking the way."

That was when Luke finally noticed me. He frowned like he'd just spotted something filthy.

"A cripple?"

He walked over, his dress shoes crunching across the broken glass. "The fuck are you doing standing here?"

"I'm cleaning up trash, sir."

"Cleaning up trash? Then what the hell does that make you?"

He shoved me. I staggered back, my bad leg nearly giving out under me.

"Look at you. You've got some nerve getting in my way looking like that."

Then he looked down and saw the sandwich on the ground—half my lunch, still wrapped in grease paper.

He nudged it with the tip of his shoe. The paper came loose, and the sandwich rolled into the pile of broken glass.

"Two-dollar garbage food? No wonder you're so damn skinny."

My right hand curled into a fist.

My nails dug into my palm.

Ten years ago, on a rainy night, my men had gone down one after another in pools of blood.

Their eyes had stayed open.

They were looking at me.

I remembered their faces.

Every single one.

My mother held my hand in her hospital bed and begged me not to keep living in that world.

Outside, sirens tore through the night.

I jumped into the ocean.

And the reason for all of it... was his father!

Luke pulled a twenty out of his wallet and tossed it onto the ground without even looking at me.

"Go buy yourself a cane, Limping Jack."

Then he got back in the car and tore off with the engine screaming.

I crouched down and picked up the bill, smeared with muddy water.

My hand was shaking.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"Kid..."

Old Frank shuffled over, trembling, and held out half a crumpled napkin and a bottle of water with only one swallow left.

"Thanks for saving me."

I took the napkin and wiped the cut at the corner of my mouth. I hadn't even realized I'd bitten through it.

"It's nothing. I'm just glad you're okay."

Old Frank was a good man.

When I first came to the docks ten years ago, I'd been so weak I could barely stand. He was the one who brought me food every day, showed me how to find work around the docks, even cleared out half of his shipping container so I'd have a place to stay.

The old man went quiet for a moment, staring at the broken bottles on the ground, then let out a sigh.

"I was trying to save up enough to buy my granddaughter some new clothes."

He bent down and started picking up the shards. One sliced his finger open, and blood dripped onto the dirt.

"Not sure what's been going on with that girl lately. She hasn't come by to see me in a long time."

He straightened up and looked out at the water in the distance.

"Too bad my no-good son got himself killed by the mob a few years back."

His voice was calm, like he was talking about somebody else.

His son had died ten years ago. I thought I knew why.

But there was nothing I could do about it...

Now even my body started trembling before I could think about fighting back.