602 THE THREE MILLIONAIRE HEIRS WHO DESTROYED MY DAUGHTER’S FACE LAUGHED—UNTIL THEY LEARNED WHO I REALLY WAS

The rain began to fall in heavy, blinding sheets as my SUV tore through the streets of Manhattan, running red lights and mounting sidewalks.

Gabriel had realized that he couldn't outrun the federal warrants. He couldn't hide his money. His empire was crumbling in real-time. A cornered beast doesn't run—it attacks the one thing its enemy loves most.

"Arthur!" I screamed into the satellite comms. "Has the guard at the hospital reported in?"

Static crackled over the line. "Daniel... the team at the ICU isn't answering. The hospital's primary power grid just went dark! Emergency generators haven't kicked in yet!"

"Drive faster!" I yelled at Marco, leaning forward over the passenger seat.

The SUV slid around the corner of 34th Street, its tires screaming against the wet asphalt. Ahead, the twenty-story glass tower of Manhattan General Hospital stood blacked out against the city skyline, lit only by the strobing red-and-blue lights of three police cruisers parked outside.

As we pulled up, I saw four police officers lying motionless on the pavement outside the ER entrance.

They weren't dead—they had been knocked out with stun weapons and zip-tied. Gabriel’s men had disguised themselves as state tactical units.

"Marco, take three men and cover the rear stairwell," I commanded, pulling a custom suppressed 9mm pistol from my shoulder holster. "Arthur, get on the hospital's auxiliary power system and get the elevators working. I’m going to the 8th floor."

I didn't wait for a response. I burst through the glass doors into the dark lobby.

The lobby was pure chaos. Nurses and medical staff were huddled behind reception desks, crying in the dark.

"Where are they?" I grabbed a young male nurse by his scrubs.

"They... they went up the West stairwell!" the nurse stammered, pointing a flashlight down the corridor. "Men with guns! They said they were looking for a girl in Room 812!"

Room 812. Renata’s room.

I hit the heavy emergency door of the stairwell and began running up the concrete steps three at a time. My lungs burned, my knees throbbed with the ache of fifty-five years of living, but I didn't slow down.

Floor 3. Floor 5. Floor 7.

As I reached the landing for the 8th floor, the heavy steel door swung open, and a man in black tactical gear stepped out, raising an assault rifle.

I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed the barrel of his rifle, forcing it upward as a volley of rounds tore into the concrete ceiling. I slammed my elbow into his throat, grabbed his collar, and threw him over the stairwell railing. He fell six stories into the dark abyss below with a sickening crash.

I stepped onto the 8th floor hallway.

It was pitch black, illuminated only by the red emergency exit signs.

Down the long corridor, three flashlight beams danced across the floor outside Room 812.