Ten days later.
In a cold morgue, a mountain-sized man stood with his head lowered, looking at the operating table before him. The ghastly white light above made the heat of his breath especially visible in the air.
The man raised a hand to loosen his tie and tightened his grip on his cane, but his face remained expressionless. Only a trace of desolation flashed through his eyes.
"My son is dead."
"Y-yes."
The manager of the New York City Autopsy Center morgue looked terrified. Many people thought this bald man was merely fat, but when he had gripped the stainless-steel operating table earlier, he had left clear handprints in it.
"Who killed him?"
"I don't know! It wasn't me! I mean, I'm just a security guard, not a coroner. I can only tell that it was a gunshot wound."
Threads snapped loose from the big man's white suit with soft hissing sounds. The stitching around his shoulders and buttons had given way under the strain of his muscles.
Yet he continued staring expressionlessly at his dead son—the mangled remains of Little Fatty, beaten into something like a rag doll.
As an underworld boss, Kingpin did not need a security guard to explain what had happened. He could see that his son had been shot from behind. Someone had emptied a magazine of 5.56mm rounds into him from close range.
What kind of person would be so vicious toward a child? One of his enemies?
The first shot to the back of Richard's head had clearly killed him, yet the killer had insisted on blasting him into mush. Was this a warning to Kingpin?
Kingpin's rage had pushed him to the edge of reason. He had almost immediately wanted to mobilize his men and slaughter several suspect families.
But he