The northern warehouse smells of rotting river wood, heavy machine oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of old copper. Outside, the storm from Lake Michigan is slamming against the corrugated iron walls, a relentless, deafening roar of wind and heavy rain that rattles the massive steel beams overhead.
The interior is entirely dark. The Lucchesi family did their job well—the power grid is dead, leaving the vast space illuminated only by the faint, watery moonlight cutting through the high, dirty skylights.
Dante holds my hand tightly as we walk through the rows of crates. His grip is a solid, crushing weight that keeps me from slipping on the wet concrete floor. Every few feet, a leak in the roof sends a steady stream of icy water splashing onto the ground, the sound echoing through the shadows like footsteps.
I pull the heavy tactical jacket tighter around my frame. It is far too large, the hem brushing my knees, but the thick, insulated fabric is the only barrier keeping my teeth from chattering. Behind us, Leo moves like a ghost, his stitched shoulder tucked tightly against his chest, his right hand gripping a suppressed submachine gun.
"They’re already inside," Leo whispers, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain. "The lock on the river gate was cut from the outside. Clean."
Dante stops. He doesn't look back at his brother. He looks down at me, his amber eyes catching the pale gray light from above. The tiny pale scar through his left eyebrow is a sharp white line in the darkness, his jaw set so tightly the muscle looks like iron.
"Stay behind the center column, Gianna," he commands, his baritone dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through the fabric of his suit jacket. "If you hear me fire, you drop flat. Don't look for me."
"Dante, I can hear them," I whisper, my fingers digging into his forearm through the heavy wool of his jacket. "Near the water edge. There are more than two."
He doesn't answer with words. He reaches out, his large, warm hand catching the nape of my neck beneath the heavy collar of the coat. He pulls me forward, his lips brushing the shell of my ear with a sudden, intense heat that completely wipes away the chill of the storm.
"They won't get near you," he murmurs, his thumb pressing hard against my jawline, a silent, heavy promise that makes my heart slam against my ribs.
He releases me, stepping into the deep shadow of a twenty-foot-high shipping container. His silver pistol is already in his hand, the long barrel reflecting the gray light of the skylights as he locks his wrist. He moves with a fluid, terrifying grace, disappearing into the dark rows before I can even blink.
I press my back against the cold, rusted steel of the center column, my bare feet frozen against the damp floor. The warehouse is a labyrinth of shadows, the rows of crates creating deep, black alleys where anyone could be hiding. I hold my breath, my ears straining to hear past the rhythmic, thundering slap of the rain against the roof.
Slosh.
The sound is faint, but it’s right around the corner. A booted foot stepping into a puddle of leaked rainwater.
I freeze, my hands balled into tight fists inside the deep pockets of the tactical jacket. The scent of black pepper and dark tobacco from Dante’s coat wraps around me, but it isn't enough to drown out the sudden, cold dread pooling in my stomach. A heavy shadow stretches across the concrete floor toward my toes, a dark silhouette holding the long shape of a rifle.
I slide deeper into the recess of the column, my knuckles turning white as I grip the metal rivets of the beam.
The shadow stops just five feet away. The silhouette turns, the barrel of the weapon shifting toward the very row where Dante just went. The man takes a slow, cautious step forward, his weight shifting onto his front foot, completely unaware that I am standing right behind the iron lip of the pillar.
Before I can make a sound, before I can scream to warn Dante, the warehouse lights suddenly go completely black.