The red light from the security console pulsed against the side of his face.

The brass doorknob turned with a slow, grinding click.

The door swung open, and three figures stepped into the office.

I recognized Enzo and Gian, two of Damiano’s oldest lieutenants.

Behind them stood a tall guard with an assault rifle slung over his shoulder.

The air in the room grew instantly thick with the smell of wet wool and cheap cigarettes.

“Damiano,” Enzo said, his voice rough and strained.

“We need to talk.”

“You bypassed my security grid, Enzo,” Damiano said.

His voice was dangerously calm.

“I did what was necessary to get in here without a spectacle,” Enzo replied.

He took a step forward, his heavy boots squeaking on the polished hardwood.

“The police are crawling all over the north harbor docks.”

“Marcus’s friends in the senate just froze our primary shipping licenses,” Gian added.

Gian’s face was slick with sweat under the emergency lights.

“We are losing half a million dollars every hour this keeps up,” Gian said.

“And it is all because of her.”