Page 107 of Dante

All those gleaming towers get smaller and smaller until they’re just a jagged line of metal and glass against the sky.

The meeting should be simple enough. Just showing my designs, discussing installation logistics.

So why do I feel so jittery?

My fingers tap against my thigh. I reach up and touch the spot beneath my jacket where the Beretta rests in its holster.

The solid weight of it against my ribs is both reassuring and terrifying.

Either way, it’s necessary.

Thomas turns off the main road onto an industrial stretch that feels abandoned even in broad daylight.

Warehouses line both sides of the street like sleeping giants, their windows opaque with decades of grime.

No pedestrians here. No food carts or taxis or tourists with cameras.

Just concrete and metal and silence.

Thomas slows the car. “There,” he says. “That’s the address.”

We pull up in front of a warehouse that looks like it’s been abandoned for years. It squats between two other industrial buildings, shorter but wider, with rust stains bleeding down its concrete walls.

The roll-up door stands open like a gaping mouth, revealing nothing but darkness inside.

No sign announces what business might operate here. No lights shine from within. Not even a security camera that I can see.

That’s odd, I think to myself.

But after my research, I’d expected Dureff to be eccentric, maybe even reclusive. I calm myself with that thought.

Then I pull out my phone and snap a photo of the exterior to send to Alice.

I already have the caption in mind: just another day in the life of a Manhattan restaurateur.

Thomas is out of the car before I can voice my concerns. He stands tall, shoulders squared, eyes sweeping the area.

His right hand hovers near his hip where I know he keeps his weapon.

“All clear,” he calls after a moment, nodding toward the entrance. “Let’s take a look inside.”

I step toward the open doorway and cross the threshold. The air inside smells like old paint and dust.

Drop cloths are piled against one wall. A ladder leans crookedly beside a worktable. Light filters in through grimy windows, turning the space gray and flat.

“Mr. Dureff?” I call.

My voice echoes back at me.

No answer.

I take another step inside.

That’s when I hear movement.

Two men step out from behind a stack of wooden crates. Heavy boots. No tools. No paint. No reason to be here.

One of them reaches behind his back, and my stomach drops.