The entire restaurant went silent the moment I touched the enormous black dog sitting beside table twelve.

When I woke, cold water was being splashed across my face.

I gasped, coughing and sputtering, my head throbbing with a vicious, nauseating ache.

I was tied to a rusted metal chair in the center of an abandoned, damp industrial warehouse. Rain dripped steadily through broken skylights three stories above. Fluorescent floodlights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, sickly yellow glow over stacks of rusted shipping containers.

Standing ten feet in front of me was Lorenzo Falcone, sipping an espresso from a paper cup, and beside him was Enzo, nursing a heavily bandaged wrist with a smug, vindictive grin.

"Good morning, sunshine," Enzo mocked, stepping forward. "Sleep well?"

"Go to hell," I croaked, my throat raw and parched.

Lorenzo walked over, signaling his nephew to step back. The older mobster looked down at me, shaking his head with mock pity. "A spirited girl. I can see why Dante lost his mind over you. But you see, Miss Marshall, in this business, sentimentality is a fatal disease. Julian had it, and he died in an alley. Dante caught it from you, and now his reign is over."

"He will tear you apart," I whispered, glaring into Lorenzo’s cold eyes. "You have no idea what you’ve unleashed."

Lorenzo chuckled, pulling a satellite phone from his pocket. "Dante Moretti is powerful, yes. But he is predictable when blinded by rage. He received our video message thirty minutes ago. He is coming alone to the Brooklyn naval yard—to the exact spot where his brother died. A poetic ending, don't you think? He trades his signed surrender documents, and you get to live."

"He won't come alone," I spat.

"Oh, he has to," Enzo sneered, tapping the side of his gun. "If our perimeter guards spot a single one of his men within ten blocks, you get a bullet between your pretty eyes."

Lorenzo dialed a number, putting the phone on speaker.

The line clicked.

"Falcone," Dante’s voice came through the speaker. It didn't sound human. It sounded like an ancient, primordial terror speaking from the depths of a frozen abyss.

"Dante, my boy," Lorenzo smiled. "I assume you received our terms? Brooklyn Pier 42. You walk in alone, sign the transfer of the shipping manifests and your federal evidence files, and the girl walks out."

A terrifying silence hung on the line.

Then, Dante spoke.

"Lorenzo," he said calmly, with a chilling, detached precision. "I am not coming to Brooklyn."

Lorenzo’s smile froze. "What?"

"You used an inside guard to cut the power to my estate," Dante continued, his voice sending a cold shiver down my spine. "His name was Paulie. It took Marco four minutes to make Paulie explain every detail of your staging area. Did you really think you could hide in an abandoned rail terminal in Queens?"

Lorenzo’s face drained of color. He spun around, staring at the shadows of the vast warehouse. "Enzo! Check the perimeter cameras!"

"And one more thing, Lorenzo," Dante’s voice whispered through the speaker.

"What?" Lorenzo barked into the phone.

"He caught your scent."