The warehouse sat on the edge of the industrial district, a neutral zone that belonged to no one and everyone.
It was the kind of place where deals were made when neither party trusted the other enough to meet on home ground. Like every other one that Dante had been in, this had concrete floors, rusted metal beams, broken windows that let in shafts of pale morning light.
It was perfect.
Dante arrived at 6:00 AM.
The sun was just starting to rise, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement outside. Marco drove, his hands steady on the wheel, his expression unreadable. Two cars followed behind them—small teams, handpicked, controlled. No one who would hesitate. No one who would question.
They pulled up to the loading dock and stopped.
Dante stepped out of the car slowly, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He adjusted his cuffs, his eyes scanning the warehouse entrance, the surrounding area, the positions of Tommaso's men already visible near the side entrance.
