A single mother touched the paralyzed syndicate boss once and made Boston afraid of him again.

The abandoned shipyard in East Boston was freezing, smelling of rust and salt. Mickey Callahan sat at a makeshift wooden table surrounded by twelve heavily armed men. He checked his watch, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Rossi ain't coming," Callahan sneered to his lieutenant. "The cripple finally lost his nerve."

The heavy metal doors of the warehouse shrieked open.

The wind howled into the massive space, and in the doorway stood Victor. Behind him were thirty of Rossi's elite enforcers, stepping into the shadows with silenced automatic weapons.

But it was the man in the center that made the air leave Mickey Callahan’s lungs.

Julian Rossi was not in a wheelchair.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. In his right hand, he held a solid tungsten walking cane. His posture was rigid, his face pale from the agonizing effort, but he was standing tall. Every step he took echoed in the cavernous warehouse. It was slow. It was a brutal fight against gravity. But it was unstoppable.

Callahan’s men stepped back instinctively, their weapons lowering in pure shock. The ghost of Boston was walking.

Julian reached the table. He didn't sit. He loomed over Callahan like a dark god of vengeance.

"Mickey," Julian said, his voice a lethal whisper. "You sent men to my therapist. You threatened a child. You burned my warehouse."

"Julian, look, let's talk—" Callahan stammered, his bravado entirely shattered by the sheer, imposing height of the man he thought was broken.

"We are done talking."

Julian didn't use a gun. He swung the tungsten cane with terrifying, pent-up velocity, striking Callahan across the jaw. The Irish boss went down hard, blood spraying across the concrete. Callahan's men raised their weapons, but a dozen laser sights from Rossi’s men instantly painted their chests. Nobody moved.

Julian dropped the cane. He reached down, grabbing Callahan by the lapels of his coat, hauling the bleeding man up to his eye level, relying entirely on his own raw upper-body strength and the locking of his newly repaired knees.

"Boston is mine," Julian snarled into Callahan's face. "The north, the south, the docks. You will pack your family, and you will leave this city by midnight. If I ever see your face again, or if you ever look in the direction of Elena Vance, I will do a lot more than break your jaw."

Julian dropped him. He turned to his men. "Burn this table. We're going home."

He walked out of the warehouse. The moment the heavy doors closed behind him, Julian’s knees buckled. Victor caught him before he hit the ground, sliding an arm under his boss’s shoulder.