Dante
I didn't trust Nikolai. Never had, never will. That bastard had been circling me like a vulture for years, waiting for the perfect moment to sink his claws in and drag me into a war I wasn't ready to start. But I wasn't blind, I knew he wanted me gone. I knew he had something planned. Like getting Javier to get on my nerves. Sending Ricardo after me, taking down my websites.
I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers against the mahogany desk as I studied the reports laid out in front of me. Nikolai's movements over the past three days were carefully detailed, every meeting, every conversation, every goddamn breath he took.
And at the center of it all was Javier, his cousin. His fucking shadow. Javier owned Eclipse, a club that competed directly with Inferno. We had never crossed paths in a way that led to bloodshed, but we weren't friends either. Just two wolves hunting in the same city, keeping a careful distance. Until now.
I traced my finger down the report. Javier had met with Nikolai twice in the past forty-eight hours. Once in his club, the second time in a private warehouse outside Manhattan. Javier wasn't just another club owner, he was a mafia boss in his own right. Powerful, cunning, and just as ruthless as his cousin. If he was aligning himself with Nikolai against me, then I had a problem.
And problems like that? They only had one solution.
A knock at my office door. Nico stepped in, his expression sharp.
"We tracked Javier to a warehouse in Brooklyn. He met with two men, no visuals yet, but we're running facial recognition now."
I exhaled. "You think one of them was Romano?"
"Could be," Nico said. "But Javier's no errand boy. If he's involved, it's because there's something in it for him."
I clenched my jaw. Javier had never made a direct move against me before. But if he was aligning with Nikolai, it meant he was choosing a side. And it wasn't mine. I turned my attention to the second stack of reports on my desk.
Marco Montenegro. There was a time when I called Marco a friend. Now, he was a fucking leech. Always wanting what was mine. First, it was influence. Then, it was business. And now? Now, it was my docks. The one thing I'd bled to secure in this city, the heart of my operations. And I wasn't about to let that happen.
I knew the way his mind worked. We built this empire side by side once. We bled for it together. And now, his name was surfacing again. His docks. My docks.
Two nights ago, a shipment had come in under Marco's name, construction materials. Except that was a lie. I tapped my fingers against the desk, staring at the manifest. The shipment came from Russian territory. And Marco, barely handle business with the Russians. Not unless he had something planned.
I picked up my glass, swirling the whiskey inside before taking a slow sip.
"Marco's docks," I said. "What do we know?"
Nico sighed. "Same shit. His men are increasing, security is tightening, and the shipments aren't adding up. You think he's finally making his move?"
I smirked darkly.
"He's always been making his move."
Marco had been waiting for the right time to push me out, and this? This was the first step. And that was fine. Because if Marco wanted war? I'd fucking give it to him.
...
The docks were quiet when we arrived. My men spread out, taking position. Marco's guards were stationed near the warehouse, unmarked vans parked at the entrance. They weren't expecting trouble. That was their biggest mistake. I approached the entrance, my steps slow, controlled. A guard spotted me, shifting slightly, his hand brushing against his gun.
I smiled. "Step aside," I said.
He hesitated. I pulled my gun, pressing the barrel to his chest. "I won't say it again."
He exhaled sharply, stepping back. Smart choice. I pushed open the warehouse door, the scent of oil and metal filled the air. Rows of crates lined the walls. Unopened and sealed. I grabbed a crowbar from a nearby workbench, prying open the nearest one.
And just as I suspected, Guns. Stacks of rifles, boxes of ammunition. A goddamn arsenal.
"Marco, Marco," I muttered under my breath. "What the fuck are you up to?"
I smirked, running my fingers over the weapons. Marco, you stupid bastard. But then, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, raising my gun. A guard, his eyes flicked to the open crate. He noticed, I didn't give him time to react. One shot, he crumpled.
The sound of the gunshot echoed. And just like that, hell broke loose. Gunfire exploded through the warehouse.
My men moved in, shooting down Marco's guards with precision. The air filled with the sharp scent of gunpowder, the metallic taste of blood.
I ducked behind a crate, reloading. Bullets ricocheted off steel and concrete. Marco had put his faith in the wrong people. My men were faster, smarter, deadlier. It didn't take long before the warehouse fell silent.
Bodies littered the floor. I exhaled, stepping over them as I made my way back to the crates. I pulled out my phone, dialing the number I knew by heart. A few rings. Then his voice came through.
"Dante," Marco answered smoothly.
I chuckled darkly. "Marco."
A pause.
"You've been busy," I said, glancing at the weapons.
"So have you," Marco replied.
I glanced at the open crate. "You want to tell me why the fuck you're playing footsie with the Russians?"
Silence.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
I smirked. "Oh, you do."
Another pause. Then Marco laughed, low and slow.
"You always did like sticking your nose where it didn't belong," he said.
"And you always liked taking what wasn't yours," I shot back.
Silence stretched between us. Marco and I had been dancing around this war for years. But this? This was the first real move. Taking my goods as his, was his biggest mistake. I leaned against the crates, gripping my gun.
"You want my docks, Marco?" I asked. "You better come and take them."
Marco didn't answer right away. "Why don't we talk in person?"
I hung up on him.