POV: DANTE
The apartment building in Williamsburg was nondescript...four stories, red brick, the kind of place that blended perfectly into the neighborhood of young professionals and artists who had no idea what actually happened behind closed doors in places like this.
Dante stood in the hallway outside Webb's apartment at 6:42 AM, flanked by two of his best men. Paolo on his left, built like a wall, carrying himself with the ease of someone who'd broken more bones than most people had met. Giancarlo on his right, smaller but sharper, the kind of smart that came from years of reading people before things went violent.
They didn't have to knock.
Dante had keys to everything that mattered in Brooklyn. That was the point of taking territory, knowing exactly how to move through it, exactly where the vulnerabilities were, exactly when to press.
