He Humiliated his Poor Ex, Unaware she's Now Married To The City's Most Ruthless Mafia Boss

Three weeks after the fall of Langley Holdings, the upper echelon of New York society was still reeling from the speed of the destruction.

Word had spread like wildfire through the penthouses of the Upper East Side: Hannah Cross was not to be touched, spoken to, or looked at with anything less than absolute, terrifying reverence.

However, deep within the shadows of the city, desperate people made desperate decisions.

In a dingy, smoke-filled basement apartment in Queens—a far cry from his former Manhattan penthouse—Trevor Langley sat at a rickety wooden table, surrounded by empty beer cans and eviction notices.

His clothes were wrinkled, his hair greasy, his hands shaking from alcohol withdrawal and bitter, rotting rage.

Sitting across from him was Victor Vance—Chloe Vance’s disgraced uncle, who had recently been removed from the Vance Pharmaceuticals board following Julian Cross’s financial purge.

“Julian Cross ruined my life,” Trevor snarled, slamming his fist onto the sticky table. “He took my family’s money! He made me a joke!”

“Julian Cross didn't do it alone,” Victor spat out, leaning forward, his eyes dark with murderous intent. “He did it for that girl. The waitress from Queens. She’s his weakness, Trevor. The only weakness a man like Cross has ever shown.”

Trevor’s bloodshot eyes narrowed into slits of pure venom. “What are you saying, Victor?”

“I have two men,” Victor whispered softly, pulling a heavy black revolver from his coat and laying it on the table between them. “Former mercenaries from the Balkans. They know the security patrol rotation at the Greenwich estate. If we take Hannah, Cross will give us back our money, our dock licenses, and everything he took from us.”

Trevor looked down at the cold black iron of the revolver.

The last remnants of his civilized sanity dissolved into pure, desperate insanity.