They told Dante Cavallaro that Sophie Miller had stolen one hundred thousand dollars from his private safe and disappeared with the one ledger capable of destroying his empire.

The shot didn't come from Marco's gun.

It came from the shadows behind a stack of shipping crates.

Crack.

Marco's Beretta flew from his hand as a bullet shattered his wrist. He screamed, dropping to his knees and clutching his bloody hand to his chest.

Rocco stepped out from the darkness, blowing wisps of smoke from the barrel of his revolver.

“Never turn your back on the driver, Marco,” Rocco asserted, walking forward and kicking the remaining gun away across the concrete.

Dante didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He walked slowly toward the kneeling man, his shadow swallowing Marco whole.

“You framed an innocent girl,” Dante said softly. “You let her take the blame for your theft. You let Silas Vane torture her for six months.”

Marco was shaking now, sweat beading on his forehead despite the freezing warehouse temperature. “Dante... wait. We've been like brothers for ten years! Think about what we've built!”

Dante stopped right in front of him.

“My father taught me one rule about trainers,” Dante said. “You don't negotiate with them. You don't listen to their excuses. You erase them so thoroughly that no one ever dares speak their name again.”

Marco lunged forward with a hidden switchblade, but Dante was faster.

He caught Marco's throat in a crushing grip, lifting him off his feet with one hand. Marco clawed desperately at Dante's wrist, his face turning purple, his legs kicking wildly in the air.

“You called me brother,” Dante whispered into Marco's ear. “A real brother protects his family. You destroyed mine.”

With a sickening crunch, Dante snapped Marco's neck and dropped the lifeless body onto the concrete beside the suitcase of stolen money.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing heavily, staring down at the man he had trusted.

"Rocco."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Burn the warehouse."

"What about the money?"