Collins Fisher stepped out from behind a stack of crates. He wasn't wearing a suit tonight; he was in tactical gear, a sidearm holstered at his hip. Behind him, four men emerged from the shadows—members of his elite unit, their movements synchronized and silent.
"Collins Fisher," Dante said. "I hear you're the man to talk to if one wants to get things done in Monterio."
"I am the only man who matters in Monterio," Collins replied, stopping ten feet away. "I’ve watched your little performance, Dante. The charity, the card, the way you’ve broken the Morettis' spirit. It’s impressive. But this isn't a ballroom."
"It's a pier," Dante noted. "A place where things are shipped out. Usually things people want to forget."
"Exactly," Collins said. He gestured to his men, who moved into a semi-ci
