The warehouse still stank of gasoline and cold iron. Sheet metal creaked above like it was holding its breath. They used to call it The Mouth not just because of its shape, but because everyone who walked in eventually spilled everything.
Michael stepped through the steel door at 2:02 a.m. exactly. No weapons. No backup. Just his name. And a warning written in the silence.
Four figures stood ahead. Faces from another life.
Cass. Rey. Miko. And the one leaning on a crate like he’d never left the throne
Dante Corso. His former second. The last man Michael ever trusted with his blind side.
Cass was the first to move — angular, sharp-eyed, still walking like every corner hid a sniper. “You finally crawl out of the grave just to piss on our turf?”
Michael didn’t blink. “Wasn’t your turf
