Dante
I walk up to a shuttered bodega. Pieces of the paper sign flap in the wind, declaring that I can get “sacks” and “dinks” inside. New York City flows around this abandoned piece of itself, not even glancing at it.
Perfect.
I slide into the alley beside it, unlock the chain on the back door, and step inside. Tony and Cal Duncan stand in the flickering light of the ex-backroom, now lined with knives, cattle prods, ropes, and any other torture instrument a Saint has come up with in the last decade.
“I was wondering if you’d ever show your fine face.” Cal smiles. “I called you as soon as I heard.”
“I had other business,” I answer crisply. “What did you catch?”
“A tuna, if I do say so myself.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “Brigadier. No sign of Fyodor, but the place was obviously important
