The storm had passed.
Three days after the docks burned, the name Ethan Cross moved through the underworld like smoke through a ruined cathedral—whispered by killers, feared by the corrupt, hunted by the law. His rise from “nobody son-in-law” to the man who outplayed the Valente council was now legend. But legends are currency, and in the criminal world, currency always invites debt.
At dawn, Ethan sat in the penthouse study, staring at a single manila file laid across the table. The label read: Project Harbinger.
The paper inside was older than Ava’s memory of him. The logo—faded, marked by a single black star—hadn’t existed on any public record in decades. Yet here it was, sent anonymously, along with three photographs: men in desert fatigues, a flag with no country, and in the cente
