The dawn over Manhattan's Upper East Side trembled as Liam Burke flipped the sixteenth strawberry pancake. Butter sizzled in the cast-iron skillet, its crisp aroma mingling with the memory of rain-lashed Coney Island—the bullet wound searing his shoulder, the metallic tang of blood and seawater, and Sophia Warren kneeling beside him, wrapping his wound with her Prada scarf.
"Strays belong in dumpsters." Jessica, his sister-in-law, slammed the divorce papers onto the marble countertop. Her diamond-studded nail traced clause three: *Monthly Alimony: $0. "After all," she sneered, "even that flea collar you're wearing was charity from the Warrens."
Liam studied the coffee stain blooming across the signature line. Three days ago, during the family meeting, Sophia's brother had "accidentally" knocked over his macchiato. The brown splatter resembled East River currents churning beneath Brooklyn Bridge—the night Sophia fished him from the water.
"Sign it before I call security." Jessica hurled a Montblanc pen at his apron. The gold nib glinted like a shiv in morning light. "Or are you waiting for a miracle? Some secret inheritance? Or..." Her laugh turned shrill. "...your gutter rat friends storming in with armored trucks?"
Helicopter blades shredded the silence.
The SnowTech logo pierced the fog first. Six Agusta AW139s formed a diamond formation, their rotor wash shattering the Warrens' stained-glass windows. As bodyguards fumbled with pistols, Evelyn Snow strode through flying debris in Balmain tailoring and blood-red Louboutins. Her Louis Vuitton trunk cracked the Persian rug open, spilling gold bars across heirloom porcelain.
"Who dares divorce my fiancé?" The tech mogul's cobalt eyes froze the Warrens mid-snarl. She closed in on Liam, platinum engagement ring gleaming like a surgical blade. "Darling," she purred, slipping the band onto his finger, "your taste in pets remains tragically quaint."
Liam's collarbone ignited. Beneath his shirt, the faded Celestial Sect tattoo—intertwined dragons and constellations—pulsed with cerulean light. As the ring clicked into place, a ninth sigil materialized: the CIA's eagle clutching a blockchain.
"Don't miss noon headlines." Evelyn's whisper carried vetiver and vengeance. "A little Pentagon data breach surprise." When she turned, Liam glimpsed the laser dot dancing on her nape—identical to the one that marked his target three years ago on Coney Island.
Jessica's scream drowned in rotor thunder. Across the kitchen, Sophia clutched the divorce papers, knuckles whitening. She would never see the burner phone vibrating against Liam's chest. The text glowed: Bride #9 activated. Pier 23, 8 PM. Bring white roses—it's your mother's death anniversary.
Liam arranged the final pancake on Wedgwood china. Frosting glittered like snow—the same whiteness that had clung to his mother's casket outside St. Patrick's Cathedral. He served the plate to the speechless Warrens, the Montblanc pen burning in his apron pocket.
"Bon appétit, Mrs. Warren." His smile cut deeper than Evelyn's stilettos. Silverware aligned at perfect 30-degree angles. "Shall I prepare antacids?" Gold bars clanged in the courtyard below. "The coming days..." He watched SnowTech commandos unload bullion. "...may prove indigestible."