Dominic’s POV
I was in the office, with a glass of single malt, and the endless columns of numbers that never seemed to add up the way I wanted them to.
The amber glow of the desk lamp caught the edge of my pen as I circled a figure, the ink bleeding slightly onto the paper.
My phone lit up with Dario’s name. Dario is one of my enforcers, and he didn’t call unless it mattered. I answered quickly.
“Boss,” he said without a preamble, his voice clipped, “we’ve got a problem. The warehouse down on Pier Forty-Seven, near the old docks, was hit last night. The new shipment is gone.”
The pen stilled in my hand.
“How much?” I asked, though I already knew.
“All of it,” he said grimly.
Pier Forty-Seven was one of our quieter locations, the kind that kept out of the spotlight. Whoever hit it
