The deafening roar of the silver pistol inside the enclosed warehouse is instantaneous, a sharp, white flash of light illuminating the dark rows of crates for a fraction of a second.
The leader of the Lucchesi crew doesn't even finish drawing his weapon. The bullet hits him square in the chest, the sheer kinetic force lifting his heavy frame off his boots and slamming him backward into the dark, churning waters of the river slip. A loud, heavy splash echoes over the thundering rain, followed by the immediate, frantic shuffling of the remaining two men.
"Drop it!" Leo’s voice barks out from the rafters above.
A sharp, rhythmic clicking sound follows as Leo aims his submachine gun from a steel catwalk, a red laser sight painting a neat, bleeding dot right onto the forehead of the younger gunman.
The remaining two men throw their hands into the air, their weapons clattering loudly onto the wooden loading platform. They are trembling violently, their eyes darting from Dante’s unyielding stance to the dark water where their leader just disappeared.
Dante doesn't lower his gun. He steps forward, his polished leather shoes crunching over a scattering of loose brass casings on the concrete. The orange lantern light catches the hard, geometric planes of his face, making him look like an ancient, vengeful god carved from river stone.
"Who authorized the shipment?" Dante demands, his voice dropping into that terrifying, level baritone.
"We don't know, Don Marchetti! We swear!" the younger one gasps, dropping to his knees on the wet wood, his hands clasped behind his head. "We just got the coordinates from a burner phone. They told us the Romano family opened the back door. They said the north pier was completely clear!"
Dante stops at the edge of the platform. He looks down at the heavy, waterproof duffel bags, then slowly turns his head back toward the shadow where I am standing. His amber eyes cut through the darkness, finding me instantly despite the layers of the massive tactical jacket swallowing my frame.
The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow twitches, a dark, possessive intensity settling back into his gaze.
"The Romano family didn't open the door," Dante murmurs, his words a razor-sharp purr that vibrates through the damp air. He steps back into the shadows, his large, warm hand catching my wrist and pulling me out into the faint orange glow of the lantern.
He forces the two kneeling men to look at us—at my cream sweater, at the massive diamond ring glinting on my finger under the light.
"Tell your bosses in the Lucchesi house that the Romano line belongs to me now," Dante commands, his grip on my wrist tightening until the heat of his palm sinks into my skin. "The treaty isn't dead. It just changed names. And if I see another blacked-out boat in my harbor, I won't just dump the crew in the river—I’ll burn the south side to the ground with your Don inside it.”