The wind on the balcony was sharp, carrying the bitter, fish-heavy tang of the Boston Harbor. It hit Dileia like a physical blow, cutting right through the thin polyester of her service uniform. She shivered, though she refused to wrap her arms around herself. Doing so would look like weakness, and tonight, weakness was a currency she couldn't afford to spend.

The warehouse was damp, smelling of rotting wood, old fish, and unburnt gunpowder.

Dileia moved like a shadow through the rusted service corridors, her service boots making no sound on the concrete floor. Adriano was ten paces ahead, his movements lethal and precise. They reached the main loading bay overlooking the lower docks.

Below them, standing under a flickering halogen light, were Marcus Vance and three towering Russian enforcers. On wooden pallets between them sat dozens of stolen steel crates stamped with the Falcone shipping seal.

"—the boss is getting soft," Marcus was snarling, pacing back and forth with a lit cigar in his mouth. "He brought a waitress into the inner circle! If we hit her, Falcone will lose his mind. That’s when we take the ports, Nikolai. That’s when we burn the whole empire down."

"Your empire is already ash, Marcus," a cold, calm voice echoed through the vast, empty warehouse.

Marcus spun around.

Adriano stepped out from the catwalk stairs, his pistol already drawn, the laser sight a tiny red dot glowing directly center on Marcus's chest. From the opposite shadow, Dileia raised her weapon, her sights locked on the lead Russian enforcer.

"Adriano!" Marcus choked out, his face turning the color of curdled milk. "Listen to me—"

"I listened to you for ten years, Marcus," Adriano said, walking slowly down the metal stairs, his boots clanging like a death knell. "And the only mistake I made was not putting a bullet in your head when my father died."

Before Marcus could draw his own weapon, one of the Russian enforcers reached for a submachine gun strapped across his chest.

Bang.

Dileia’s shot was crisp, clean, and devastatingly accurate. The Russian’s shoulder exploded in a spray of blood, his weapon clattering harmlessly to the concrete.

What followed was thirty seconds of absolute, controlled chaos. Adriano moved like a phantom, disabling the remaining two guards with two silent, professional shots before they even cleared their holsters.

Marcus dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he stared up at the barrel of Adriano’s gun. "Please... Adriano... we're family..."