Chapter 1 - Franco
I don't do good deeds.
In my line of work, compassion is a luxury I can't afford. Mercy is a weakness that gets you killed. Tonight is proof of that principle. I stand in the shadows of the warehouse, watching as Dante questions the man tied to the chair. Blood drips from the man's split lip onto his once-expensive suit.
"I'll ask you one more time," Dante says, his voice calm despite the situation. "Who told you about the shipment?"
The man spits blood onto the concrete floor. "Go to hell."
Dante sighs and glances at me, giving the subtle nod that's become our shorthand over so many years of working together. I step forward, removing my jacket and folding it over a nearby crate. The man's eyes widen as he watches me roll up my sleeves.
"Franco," Dante says, "make sure our friend understands the importance of cooperation."
I don't enjoy causing pain. I simply excel at it. It's a skill like any other. One I've refined through years of necessity and survival. Twenty minutes later, we have our answer: a rival organization has infiltrated our security. The traitor is one of our own.
"Clean this up," Dante tells me as he heads for the door. "Then meet me at Vincenzo's. We have details to discuss."
I nod, already calculating the most efficient way to dispose of the body and evidence. This is my value to Dante. I handle the unpleasant necessities without hesitation or judgment. I am the shadow that ensures his empire runs smoothly.
After I'm done, I wash the blood from my hands in the warehouse's grimy bathroom. The cold water stings the split knuckles on my right hand. The man's cheekbone had beensurprisingly solid. I study my reflection in the cracked mirror. Forty years old, but I look older. My dark eyes reveal nothing. The stubble covering my jaw is peppered with more gray than I care to admit.
I retrieve my jacket, straighten my tie, and walk out into the night. The November air is sharp with the promise of winter, cutting through the lingering smell of blood and fear that clings to my skin no matter how thoroughly I wash. My car waits where I left it, a black Audi that blends into the darkness. Practical. Invisible. Like me.
The streets are nearly empty this late. I drive through the financial district, past closed shops and darkened office buildings. This city has two faces: the gleaming facade it presents during daylight hours, and the shadow world that emerges after dark. I belong to the latter.
I park two blocks from Vincenzo's, a high-end restaurant that serves as one of Dante's legitimate businesses and a convenient meeting place. The walk will clear my head.
My phone buzzes. A text from Raphael, Dante’s left hand: *Situation at the docks. Boss wants you there ASAP.*
I change direction, heading east toward the harbor instead. The neighborhood deteriorates with each block I pass. Here, the buildings are crumbling, graffiti marking territory claims from various gangs. Street lamps flicker uncertainly, creating more shadows than light.
The city knows me, or at least it knows to fear me. A group of men smoking outside a bar fall silent as I pass, their eyes dropping to avoid meeting mine. I've worked hard for that reputation. Fear is currency in my world, and I'm a wealthy man.
I check my watch. Eleven-forty. Whatever is happening at the docks must be significant for Dante to call me directly afterour session with the traitor. Likely something to do with the information we just extracted. If someone's been interfering with our shipments, we need to send a message. Clear, brutal, and public enough that no one makes the same mistake again.
My mind catalogs potential suspects and appropriate responses as I walk. This is what I do best. Strategic problem-solving with lethal efficiency. Not politics or business negotiations. Those are Dante's domain. I'm the executor, the final word when diplomacy fails.
A bitter wind cuts through the street, carrying the scent of the harbor—salt, fish, and diesel. I turn down a narrow side street that will shave five minutes off my walk to the docks. The buildings press in closer here, the street narrows, and the few functioning street lamps create pools of sickly yellow light separated by stretches of darkness.
In one of these dark stretches, a figure emerges from a doorway, stumbling into my path. I sidestep smoothly, my hand moving toward my weapon.
"Sorry, man," the figure slurs, clearly drunk. He weaves back into the shadows without recognizing me or registering the danger he was in. Just another anonymous interaction in a city full of strangers passing in the night.
I continue walking, my thoughts returning to the docks. Something isn't sitting right. Raphael's text was too vague. Dante would have called directly if it were truly urgent. I pull out my phone to call him back when I hear a sound that stops me cold.
A woman's scream echoes from an alley ahead, followed immediately by a child's voice: "Mommy!"
I pause. This isn't my problem. I have a job to do. Dante is waiting.
Another cry rings out, more desperate this time.
Before I can think it through, I'm moving toward the sound, slipping between buildings into a narrow alleyway. My eyes adjust quickly to the dimness, picking out three teenage figures surrounding a woman who's backed against a brick wall. She clutches a small boy to her side, her other hand gripping her purse like it contains everything she owns in the world.
I assess the situation in seconds. Three punks, maybe sixteen to eighteen years old. The tallest one has a knife, poorly concealed in his pocket. The woman is trembling but positioned to protect the child rather than herself. Her clothes are worn, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that's coming undone. The exhaustion on her face speaks of long shifts and longer worries.
"Please," she begs. "Take whatever you want, just don't hurt my son."
The leader sneers, emboldened by her fear. "Hand over the bag, bitch."
