GRAYSON

My foot slammed down on the gas pedal, the car roaring as I sped down the street like a maniac. My mind was racing just as fast. The phone call still echoed in my head—the driver muttering something about Ariana being taken by men from the Genovese Circle. I gripped the steering wheel harder, my knuckles turning white.

I swerved around a corner, barely registering the blaring horns of other cars I cut off in my haste. I had one goal: to get to her. To fix this. And to make those bastards pay.

When I reached the location the driver had given me, I slammed the brakes, the...