Chapter 4 - The ArsenalI stood frozen for a second, the encrypted phone buzzing uselessly in my palm.
Midnight. That gave us less than two hours.
If I handed over the ledger, Julian would control my entire financial and political infrastructure. He could bankrupt me, frame me for international terrorism, and wipe my entire syndicate off the map with a single stroke of a pen.
If I didn't hand it over, Clara O'Shea died. And Elena would be left entirely alone in a world designed to chew up and spit out the weak.
"Dante?"
I looked down. Elena was tugging at my sleeve, her large dark eyes searching my face for answers.
"Is my mommy coming back?"
I knelt down, placing both hands firmly on her small shoulders. I looked straight into her eyes, letting her see absolute, unshakeable certainty—even if my mind was racing through a dozen lethal scenarios.
"Listen to me, Elena," I said, my voice steady and firm. "Your mommy is going to come home. I promise you that. But right now, you need to be very brave. I have to go take care of some very bad men."
"Can I come?"
"No," I smiled faintly, brushing a damp lock of hair from her forehead. "You’re going to stay right here with Bruno. Marcus and Luca will keep this door locked tight. Nobody gets in unless they say the password."
"What's the password?"
"Chocolate ice cream," I said. "Only give the door to someone who knows that."
She nodded solemnly, her small arms wrapping around my neck in a sudden, fierce hug. It caught me completely off guard. For a hardened criminal who hadn't let anyone close in over a decade, the warmth of a child's embrace felt like a lightning bolt to the chest.
I stood up, walking toward the heavy metal locker set into the back wall of the cafe.
I spun the combination dial. Click. Click. Click.
The heavy steel door swung open, revealing an armory that could supply a small paramilitary unit. Rows of suppressed submachine guns, tactical vests, ceramic plates, flashbangs, and a pair of customized Sig Sauer pistols rested neatly in foam slots.
Marcus walked back up from the basement, wiping a speck of blood off his knuckles.
"Vittorio sing?" I asked, sliding a tactical vest over my black shirt.
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"Like a canary," Marcus reported grimly. " Pier 49. Old abandoned grain silo. Julian’s men have set up a perimeter. At least twenty armed mercenaries with night-vision gear and automatic rifles. It's a slaughterhouse setup, Boss."
"Good," I replied, racking the slide of my Sig Sauer with a sharp, metallic clack. "Because we aren't going there to negotiate."
