The warehouse was cold that night.
Rain hit the metal roof in steady drops.
Inside, the air smelled of smoke, gun oil, and blood.
Two black cars were parked near the back.
Men in dark coats stood around, guns in hand, waiting.
Marcus Vail was dragged inside by two of them.
His hands were tied, his face bleeding from a cut on his cheek.
He was thrown to the floor like trash.
A voice came from the corner. Calm. Smooth. Dangerous.
“Lift him up.”
The men pulled Marcus to his feet.
Lorenzo DeLuca stepped out of the shadows.
He looked nothing like his brother — his hair slicked back, his smile cruel, his eyes calm.
He wore a black shirt, no tie, no emotion.
“Marcus Vail,” he said slowly. “Private investigator. Hired to dig into the DeLuca family.”
Marcus glared at him. “You know m
