The iron map table reflects the harsh fluorescent light, casting a sickly yellow glow across the faces of the captains. Dante’s hand remains a heavy, burning brand on my shoulder, his fingers digging slightly into the soft cream cashmere of my sweater.
"Tonight, boss?" Marco asks, his sharp eyes darting from the map to Dante’s rigid posture. "The storm is rolling in from the lake. The visibility on the water is zero. It’s a suicide run if they have the pier bracketed."
"They expect me to hide in my fortress and count my dead guards," Dante says, his voice a flat, dead line of pure ice. "They don't expect me on the docks. We catch them while they're still unloading the crates."
He lifts his hand from my shoulder, and the sudden loss of his warmth leaves me feeling exposed under the cold glares of the neighborhood bosses. He slips his hand inside his jacket, pulling a sleek silver cell phone from his pocket. He taps the screen twice, his jaw tightening as he waits for the connection.
"Leo," Dante barks into the receiver. "Get the armored trucks ready. We’re moving to the northern warehouse in ten minutes."
He doesn't wait for his brother's response. He clicks the phone shut and tosses it onto the map, right in the center of the red circle. He looks down at me, his amber eyes narrowing into two lethal slits.
"Dante," I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the low hum of the ventilation. "You can't take me there. I’m a baker. I don't know how to fight a war on the docks."
"You stitched my brother's shoulder without blinking, Gianna," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips are inches from my ear. The dark scent of cedar, tobacco, and old leather wraps around me like a shroud. "You don't need to fight. You just need to look like the woman who owns the man with the gun."
He catches my wrist, his thumb pressing hard against my fast, frantic pulse. He pulls me out of the heavy leather chair, his grip unyielding as he forces me to my feet. The captains watch us in absolute silence, their hands resting on their laps, their compliance bought and paid for by the sheer terror Dante commands.
"The meeting is over," Dante announces to the room, not looking at a single face. "Clear the blocks. If a single Lucchesi soldier is still breathing on the north side by sunrise, I’ll find new captains to run the sectors."
He turns me toward the steel door, his large hand settling firmly at the small of my back, pushing me out of the smoky bunker and back onto the steep iron stairs. The air in the narrow stairwell is freezing, smelling of wet concrete and rising river water.
We reach the top of the stairs, stepping back onto the main warehouse floor. The red emergency light is still ticking against the wall, casting long, bloody shadows across the rows of stacked tobacco crates.
Enzo is waiting by the rear exit, holding a heavy black tactical jacket in his hands. He steps forward, his boots skidding slightly on the damp floor, and hands the jacket to Dante.
Dante doesn't put it on. He takes the heavy, insulated coat and drapes it over my shoulders, covering the cream sweater entirely. The jacket is massive, smelling of gun oil and cold rain, but the thick lining cuts through the chill instantly.
"The truck is out back, Don Marchetti," Enzo says, his voice shaking. "Leo is already in the driver's seat. But the scouts just radioed in. The Lucchesi just cut the power to the entire northern grid."
Dante doesn't look back. He grabs my hand, his palm boiling hot against my cold fingers, and shoves the heavy exit door open.
"Let them cut it," Dante growls, his amber eyes burning with a dark, lethal fire as the freezing winter rain hits our faces. "We see better in the dark anyway.”