1980 – New York City
Luciano Wilder was fucked.
Not in the good way, either. This was the bleeding-out, running-for-your-life, heart-pounding-in-your-damn-throat kinda fucked. His $3,000 suit? Ruined. Torn at the knees, splattered with grime from the filthy New York streets. His loafers? Not made for sprinting. But right now? He didn't have a damn choice.
Behind him, three pissed-off bastards in slick Armani suits were gaining.
BANG!
A shot cracked the night open. A window exploded, raining glass onto the sidewalk. A woman screamed. A guy in a taxi ducked so fast he hit his own horn.
"RUN ALL YOU WANT, WILDER! YOU'RE A DEAD MAN!" one of them roared.
"No shit, genius!" Luciano didn't need a play-by-play—he was the one bleeding from a goddamn bullet wound in his side! His breath came in sharp gasps as he dodged past a food cart, knocking it over. Hot dogs and pretzels scattered everywhere, the vendor cursing him out in two different languages.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
