The Chicago docks were a maze of steel and shadows, the early evening air thick with the scent of oil and lake water, the distant hum of cranes muted by a light drizzle. Daniel Isiah stood in a dimly lit warehouse, its concrete floor stained with years of grit, his black leather jacket zipped against the chill. At thirty-five, he’d forged his mafia empire over four years with ruthless precision, but the botched deal at these same docks—disrupted by Rocco Varga’s ambush—had left his alliance with the Italians frayed. Tonight’s meeting was his chance to salvage it, a high-stakes negotiation to secure the smuggling route for pharmaceuticals that could cement his power or unravel it.
Sayrn Sauns waited in a black SUV parked a safe distance away, her medical kit on the seat beside her, her che
