ALEXANDER
The engine growls low beneath us as Enzo drives straight across town. I sit in the passenger seat, phone still warm in my pocket from the call, hands braced tight against my knees. Neither of us says much on the way over. There’s no need. The air in the car is already thick with expectation, with the promise of blood.
I gave Raffa clear instructions before we left—the warehouse perimeter had to be locked down, every exit covered, every blind spot sealed. No one was to get in or out until I arrived. The last thing I needed was another ghost slipping through our fingers.
When we finally pull up, the place looks deserted from the outside, only a faint yellow glow leaking from high-set windows. Raffa is waiting at the entrance, posture stiff, eyes alert. He greets us with a sharp
