If we don’t get them out of this freezing sleet immediately, the frost will take both of those innocent babies!” Kaelen barked, his voice barely cutting through the howling wind beneath the rusted Boston overpass.

Across the city in the penthouse suite of the Ritz-Carlton, Julian Croft was screaming in agony as a private orthopedic surgeon set his shattered kneecap.

He was drenched in cold sweat, clutching a crystal tumbler of vintage whiskey with shaking fingers.

Beside him stood Corinne Delacroix, his glamorous socialite mistress and the daughter of Boston’s Chief Federal Magistrate.

Corinne wore a silk robe, her sharp manicured fingers tapping anxiously against the glass coffee table.

“You idiot, Julian!” Corinne hissed, her voice sharp with furious panic.

“You told me Elena and those brats were dead!”

“You told me the frost would take care of them before the street sweepers cleared the highway at dawn!”

“How did Silas Mercer get to them first?!”

Julian took a massive gulp of whiskey, coughing violently as the burn hit his throat.

“I don't know!” Julian roared, slamming the glass down so hard it cracked against the marble.

“Mercer’s convoy was supposed to be in New York inspecting the harbor terminals!”

“Someone tipped him off!”

Corinne paced back and forth across the suite, her diamond rings catching the ambient light.

“Do you realize what happens if Elena walks into the Probate Court with Mercer’s legal team?” Corinne said, grabbing Julian by his lapels.

“The Hawthorne trust stipulates that if a direct female descendant produces natural heirs, the entire ninety-billion-dollar maritime portfolio transfers to her unconditionally on her twenty-fifth birthday!”

“Her birthday is in four days, Julian!”

“If we don't eliminate her and secure those twin babies under our legal custody before Friday, Croft Global will be bankrupt by Monday morning!”

Julian’s eyes burned with a mixture of manic greed and desperate hatred.

He reached for his secure satellite phone on the table and dialed an unlisted international number.

“Call the Voronin syndicate in Montreal,” Julian commanded into the receiver, his voice shaking with venomous resolve.

“Tell Anton Voronin I will give him fifty percent of the South Boston container docks.”

“I want thirty heavy mercenaries in Boston by tomorrow night.”