The flashlight beam snaps off instantly, plunging the row between the crates back into a deep, bloody red shadow. The echo of Dante’s voice still bounces off the corrugated iron ceiling, a low, rumbling threat that leaves the air tasting like ozone and gunpowder.
I take three quick paces, my bare feet freezing as they hit the cold concrete of the main warehouse floor. I stay exactly behind the broad, solid shield of Dante's shoulders, my eyes straining to see past the sharp line of his suit jacket. My heart is a frantic hammer inside my chest, but the steady, unyielding rigidity of his posture keeps me from screaming.
"Dante," a voice calls out from the darkness. It isn't a rival soldier’s snarl. It is rough, deep, and heavily accented, but it carries a tone of submissive panic. "Don't shoot. It's Enzo."
A heavy figure steps out from behind a stack of weathered tobacco crates. He wears the dark blue canvas jacket of a Marchetti dock captain, his hands raised high above his head, the metal buttons of his sleeves glinting in the faint red glow of the emergency light. His face is slick with sweat despite the freezing draft cutting through the room.
Dante doesn't lower his silver pistol. His arm remains locked, his amber eyes tracking the man's every micro-movement with lethal intensity.
"You’re supposed to be guarding the southern pier, Enzo," Dante says. His baritone is a flat, dead line of pure authority that makes the captain visibly flinch. "Why are you inside my warehouse with your light off?"
"The Lucchesi... they didn't just come through the coal chute, boss," Enzo gasps, his chest heaving under the heavy canvas jacket. He takes a cautious step forward, his boots skidding slightly on a patch of spilled machine grease. "They have a boat. A fast one, blacked out, sitting right under the platform of the north pier. They’re setting a meeting. The captains... the neighborhood bosses... they’re all gathered in the underground boardroom right now. They want to know if you're still running the city, or if the Romano family broke you."
Dante slowly lowers the gun by an inch, the metallic click of his thumb riding the hammer the only sharp sound in the vast space. The muscle beneath his tanned cheek ticks with a dark, simmering fury.
"They think a few broken windows at my estate means I’ve lost my grip," Dante murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous purr that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. He turns his head slightly, his gaze cutting over his shoulder to lock directly onto mine.
The amber flecks in his eyes burn with a sudden, heavy decision. He reaches out, his large, warm hand catching my wrist through the sleeve of my cream sweater. His grip is firm, an absolute command that leaves no room for debate.
"A meeting with the captains in the underground boardroom," he says, his voice a razor-sharp whisper right against my ear. He cleans a stray drop of dried crimson from my sleeve with his thumb, his rough skin scraping the fabric. "We’re going down there, Gianna. You’re going to sit right next to me at the head of that table, and you’re going to show every wolf in this city exactly who wears the Marchetti ring.”