The message arrives at 2:47 AM, burning across my phone screen like a brand: I know who killed your family. Meet me. Pier 9 parking structure. Level 3. Come alone. 4 AM.
I stare at it until my eyes burn. The number is untraceable—I already checked. Encrypted. Routed through a dozen proxy servers. Whoever sent this knows what they're doing.
My finger hovers over Dante's contact. I should call him. He'd tell me it's obviously a trap, that I'm walking into an execution with a neat little bow tied around it. He'd probably be right.
I delete the message instead.
By 3:30 AM, I'm dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket, checking my weapons with the kind of methodical calm that only comes from years of practice. Glock 19 in my shoulder holster. Knife strapped to my thigh. Another blade tuc
