The sudden blackout plunges the warehouse into a thick, pitch-black dark so absolute it feels heavy, suffocating the senses. The pale moonlight that had been filtering through the skylights vanishes completely as thick, rolling storm clouds swallow the moon entirely outside.
I press myself harder against the cold iron column, my eyes wide, staring into a void where my own hands disappear.
The silhouette that had been towering just five feet away is gone, replaced by a terrifying invisibility. But I can still hear him. His heavy nylon tactical pants rustle against each other as he shifts his stance. His breathing is loud, shallow, and panicked. He wasn't expecting the light to die completely either.
Click.
The sharp, metallic sound of a safety being flicked off echoes right in front of me. The gunman is raising his rifle, preparing to fire blindly down the row where Dante disappeared.
Before he can pull the trigger, a sudden, wet thud cuts through the roar of the rain.
There is no gunshot. No explosion of gunpowder. Just the heavy, solid sound of a fist colliding with a throat, followed by a choked, rattling gasp. The gunman's rifle clatters loudly against the wet concrete floor, the heavy metal barrel sliding away into the darkness. A body hits the ground with a dull, heavy slap, the man groaning once before going entirely limp.
A hand reaches out of the blackness, wrapping firmly around my upper arm.
I gasp, my instinct to scream rising in my throat, but a large, scalding-hot palm instantly clamps over my mouth, sealing the sound inside. The scent of black pepper, cedar, and the faint, bitter trace of espresso fills my senses.
"Quiet, little baker," Dante’s gravelly voice whispers right against my ear. His breath is a hot, fierce contrast to the freezing draft cutting through the warehouse. He slowly lowers his hand from my mouth, but his fingers linger on my jawline, his grip a heavy, grounding anchor in the dark.
"Is he... is he dead?" I whisper, my teeth chattering as the adrenaline begins to recede, leaving me shivering violently inside the massive tactical jacket.
"He's asleep," Dante murmurs, his jaw brushing my temple as he leans down. "Leo cut the power from the main breaker outside. The Lucchesi thought they controlled the grid, but they forgot this is our harbor. We don't need eyes to hunt on our own docks."
He pulls me away from the iron column, his hand sliding down to interlace his large, calloused fingers with mine. His palm is boiling hot, his grip so tight it pushes the silver wedding band deep into my skin. He guides me through the absolute darkness with an eerie, impossible precision, his leather shoes making no sound on the wet concrete while my bare feet skid over patches of moisture.
We move deeper into the back of the warehouse, where the heavy smell of the river grows stronger. Through a gap in the stacked tobacco crates, I can see a faint, flickering orange glow.
It’s a portable lantern, sitting on the deck of a sleek, blacked-out speedboat moored right inside the indoor slip of the north pier. The boat is idling, its engine a low, vibrating hum that mixes with the thundering rain on the roof. Three men are standing on the wooden platform next to the water, their dark tactical gear soaked from the storm. They are frantically tossing heavy, waterproof duffel bags from the deck of the boat onto a wooden loading pallet.
"Where the hell is Marcus?" one of the men grunts, his voice tight with nerves as he wipes rain from his eyes. "He was supposed to clear the center row five minutes ago."
"The power cut screwed the signal," another voice snaps, a younger man with a heavy Chicago accent. He slams a heavy crate onto the pile. "Just get the cargo out. If Marchetti finds out we’re sitting on his delivery, we’re dead before we hit the highway."
Dante stops in the shadow of a massive wooden crate just ten feet from the platform. He releases my hand, his body shifting as he steps out from behind the cover.
The flickering orange light of the lantern.