Chapter Two — Dante
1117 Words
The man on his knees on the warehouse floor was crying, which Dante found more embarrassing than the theft itself.
"Please. Please, Mr. Marchetti, I can get it back. I swear on my kids—"
"Don't."
Dante said it without heat, buttoning his cuff where it had ridden up.
"Don't swear on your kids. You lost that right when you decided my money looked better in your pocket than mine."
Ricardo Bell swallowed hard.
The warehouse was silent except for the distant hum of machinery and the occasional drip of water somewhere behind the stacked crates. Three men stood along the walls, watching. Salvatore stood closest to Dante, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
Bell had run one of the Marchetti-owned laundromats on the east side for four years, skimming a modest, stupid amount off the top every week for the last six months, apparently under the impression that modest and stupid meant unnoticed.
Dante had known within three weeks.
He'd let it run another five months out of something between curiosity and boredom, watching to see if the man would stop on his own.
He hadn't.
"It was for my daughter's surgery," Bell said. "I was going to pay it back. I just needed—"
"You could have asked me."
Dante crouched so they were eye level.
That was something he'd learned years ago. Looming frightened men, but it also allowed them to turn you into an abstraction.
Eye level made you a person who was choosing this.
"I would have paid for the surgery. All you had to do was ask."
Bell's eyes widened.
Hope appeared.
Then disappeared.
Because he understood that Dante wasn't offering mercy.
He was making a point.
"Instead," Dante continued quietly, "you decided I was the kind of man you could steal from quietly."
"I made a mistake."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
Bell's breathing became faster.
Dante stood and straightened his jacket.
"That's the problem with apologies," he said. "They usually arrive after the useful part of the lesson."
He nodded toward Salvatore.
Salvatore stepped forward.
Bell scrambled backward on his knees.
"Wait!"
His hands slapped against the concrete as he tried to push himself away.
"Please!"
Dante turned his back.
"Mr. Marchetti!"
Dante didn't stop.
"I'll pay it back!"
"You should have thought of that before."
The first blow landed behind him.
Dante didn't flinch.
He walked toward the warehouse doors.
Then a gunshot cracked through the building.
Everyone froze.
Dante stopped.
Salvatore's hand immediately went beneath his jacket.
Another shot.
This one came from the eastern entrance.
"Down!"
Salvatore shoved Dante sideways just as a bullet tore through the metal shelving where his head had been.
Boxes crashed to the floor.
Men shouted.
The warehouse exploded into movement.
Dante hit the ground behind a concrete support column as another round punched through the steel above him.
"How many?" he demanded.
"At least four!"
"At least?"
"More outside!"
Dante drew his weapon.
The calm expression disappeared from his face.
This was the version of him that men whispered about.
No shouting.
No panic.
Just calculation.
"Kill the lights."
Salvatore looked at him.
"Now."
The warehouse plunged into darkness.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Dante heard footsteps.
One.
Two.
Three.
Fast.
He leaned around the column and fired.
A man dropped behind a stack of crates.
Another shot came from the far side.
Salvatore returned fire.
"Left!"
Dante moved before the warning finished.
He crossed the open space low and fast, grabbed one of his men by the shoulder and dragged him behind cover as bullets struck the concrete.
"You're hit."
The man looked down.
Blood was spreading across his sleeve.
"It's nothing."
"Then stop bleeding on my floor."
The man almost laughed.
Almost.
Then another burst of gunfire shattered the silence.
Dante looked toward the eastern doors.
Someone was trying to retreat.
"Don't let them leave."
Three of his men moved at once.
The warehouse became a maze of shadows, gunfire and falling debris.
Dante advanced through it with deliberate precision.
One attacker emerged from behind a stack of crates and raised his weapon.
Dante fired first.
The man dropped.
Another came from the opposite side.
Salvatore took him down.
Then silence.
Dante stood in the center of the warehouse, breathing steadily.
"Report."
"Two down inside. One outside. Two escaped."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Find them."
His men scattered.
Salvatore approached.
"That wasn't Bell's people."
"No."
"They were waiting for us."
Dante looked toward the open warehouse doors.
Cold night air pushed through the building.
Someone had known he would be here.
Someone had known exactly when.
His phone vibrated.
He pulled it from his pocket.
One message.
Unknown number.
You have a debt to collect. So do I.
Dante stared at the screen.
Salvatore watched his expression.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"Could be Kozlov."
"Could be."
Dante deleted the message.
Then he looked at Bell, who was still on the floor, trembling.
"Get him medical attention."
Salvatore raised an eyebrow.
Dante glanced at him.
"The daughter still needs her father."
"You letting him walk?"
"No."
Dante turned toward the doors.
"His debt remains."
Outside, a black car sped away at the end of the street.
Dante watched the taillights disappear.
Something had shifted.
He could feel it.
The city had been quiet for too long, and quiet in his world never meant peace.
It meant someone was preparing to make noise.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket.
"Find out who sent them."
Salvatore nodded.
"And Dante?"
Dante looked at him.
"The Voss account came due this morning."
Dante's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
"Marco Voss."
"Two point four million."
"I know."
"The restaurant can't cover even half."
Dante looked toward the city lights.
"And his daughter?"
Salvatore hesitated.
"Elena Voss. Twenty-six. Runs the front of the restaurant. No criminal history. No known connection to the family business beyond working there."
Dante said nothing.
"Do you want me to bring the father in?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Dante's eyes hardened.
"Bring both of them."
Salvatore studied him.
"Both?"
"Tomorrow."
He started walking toward the waiting car.
"Let the father understand exactly what his debt has bought him."
He stopped at the door.
"And let me see what kind of woman he raised."
Salvatore's expression remained neutral, but something in his eyes suggested he'd noticed the unusual interest.
Dante ignored it.
He had spent nine years building an empire by knowing exactly what people were worth.
Money.
Territory.
Loyalty.
Fear.
Everything had a price.
He had no reason to believe Elena Voss would be any different.
At least, that was what he told himself as the car disappeared into the night.
He would soon discover how wrong he was.
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