Dante’s Point of View
The air inside the hideout was heavy with a mix of smoke and tension, the low hum of muffled conversations ceasing the moment Sarah and I stepped through the iron doors. The dimly lit room was a stark contrast to the sleek bars and luxury suites I frequented. Here, everything was raw peeling walls, wooden crates doubling as tables, and a sense of unspoken rules that could snap at any moment.
As we walked further in, everyone present rose from their seats, a silent acknowledgment of my presence. I offered a curt nod, brushing past them to the head of the room where Flint, a bald, broad-shouldered man with a face carved by years of violence, stood waiting. His sharp, calculating eyes met mine, and he gestured toward an empty chair at the table.
“Boss,” he began, his
