The dining room was quieter tonight.
Mila sat across from Vincenzo, her plate half-empty as she pushed the food around on it. Dante was at the head of the table with Marco to his right, sipping on their glasses of wine.
The conversation had been light—business updates, a few comments about the weather, nothing that required much thought.
But she was tired. She hadn't done that type of paperwork in a long time, and now her head hurt so much that her hair was actually hurting.
Vincenzo was telling a story about a supplier who'd tried to renegotiate terms at the last minute while Dante listened, his expression neutral, occasionally nodding. Marco ate in silence, his focus on his food.
It had to be a full moon or something, because no one was acting normally, but no one could actually pinpoint what was going on with them, either.
Then Dante's phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening for a split second before he stood without a word and stepped away from the table, pressing the phone to his ear.
"What happened?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. Sharp, controlled, and furious.
Mila set her fork down, watching his movements and she wasn't the only one.
Vincenzo stopped mid-sentence, his gaze following Dante across the room while Marco looked up, his hand pausing halfway to his mouth.
Dante listened, his expression darkening with each passing second. His free hand curled into a fist at his side.
"How many?"
A pause.
"Ten." His voice was flat. "And the warehouse?"
Another pause.
"I'm on my way."
He ended the call and turned back to the table. His gaze swept over the three of them, landing on Marco first.
"There was a fire at the docks, one of our warehouses. Ten men are dead," he announced, his tone so sharp that it was able to cut through Mila's headache.
Marco was already standing, his chair scraping against the floor. "Which warehouse?"
"The one on the east side."
Vincenzo stood as well, his expression serious. "The new shipment was supposed to arrive there tonight."
"It did." Dante's tone was clipped. "Now it's gone."
He looked at Mila. "Stay here."
"I'm coming with you."
"No."
"You brought me into this." She stood, meeting his gaze. "I'm not sitting here while you deal with it."
Dante stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded once. "Fine. But you stay in the car."
"Agreed."
Marco was already moving toward the door and Vincenzo followed, his expression unreadable.
Dante gestured for Mila to go ahead of him, and she did, her pulse quickening as they left the dining room.
The car was already waiting for them, the engine running.
Marco climbed into the driver's seat. Vincenzo took the front passenger seat. Dante opened the back door for Mila, and she slid inside as he followed, pulling the door shut behind him.
No one spoke.
Instead, Mila watched the city blur past the windows, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The tension in the car was thick, pressing down on her chest.
Dante's jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His hand rested on his knee, fingers drumming a slow, steady rhythm.
Vincenzo leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "Do we know who did this?"
"Not yet." Dante's tone was cold. "But we will."
"It has to be the east side." Vincenzo shook his head. "This is the third incident in two weeks."
"I know."
"Someone's pushing."
"I know."
Marco took a sharp turn, the tires screeching against the asphalt. Mila braced herself against the seat, her heart pounding.
The docks came into view a few minutes later.
The sun had almost disappeared into the ocean, leaving the sky streaked with deep orange and purple. But the glow on the horizon wasn't just the sunset.
It was fire.
Smoke billowed into the air, thick and black, rising in a column that blotted out the fading light. The warehouse was engulfed, flames licking up the sides of the building, consuming everything in their path.
Police cars lined the street, their lights flashing red and blue. Fire trucks were parked at angles, hoses snaking across the pavement, water spraying in arcs toward the blaze.
People were everywhere. Firefighters shouting orders, police officers cordoning off the area, workers standing in clusters, their faces pale and shocked.
Marco pulled the car to a stop at the edge of the scene.
Dante was out before the engine had fully cut off.
Mila watched him stride toward the warehouse, his posture rigid, his movements sharp and deliberate. Marco followed close behind, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.
Vincenzo climbed out more slowly, his gaze sweeping over the scene. He stood by the car for a moment, his expression unreadable, then moved toward Dante.
Mila stayed in the back seat, her hands gripping the edge of the door.
The heat from the fire was visible even from here, as the air shimmered, distorted by the flames. The smell of burning wood and chemicals was thick, acrid, and choking.
She watched as Dante approached one of the police officers, his voice low and clipped. The officer gestured toward the warehouse, shaking his head.
Dante's jaw tightened.
He turned to Marco, said something Mila couldn't hear, then moved closer to the fire line.
Vincenzo stayed a few steps behind, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the burning building.
Mila pushed the car door open and stepped out.
The heat hit her immediately, a wall of it that made her skin prickle. She stayed by the car, her arms crossed, watching.
A firefighter ran past, shouting into a radio. Another dragged a hose toward the building, water spraying in a wide arc.
The warehouse groaned, the structure buckling under the weight of the flames. Part of the roof collapsed inward, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
Mila flinched.
Dante didn't.
He stood at the edge of the fire line, his gaze fixed on the building. His expression was cold, controlled. But there was something beneath it, something sharp and dangerous, like a man pushed to his breaking point.
Marco moved to his side, leaning in to say something. Dante nodded once, his jaw tight.
Vincenzo approached, his voice calm. "We need to pull back. There's nothing we can do here."
"I know." Dante's tone was flat. "But I need to see it."
"You've seen it."
"Not enough. Not if ten of our men died here today."
Vincenzo didn't argue. He just stood there, his gaze moving over the scene.
Mila watched them. The three of them standing together, silhouetted against the flames. Dante at the center, Marco to his right, Vincenzo to his left.
They looked like they were used to this position, like this was just another night, another crisis, another problem to solve.
But ten men were dead.
And the warehouse was gone.
Mila turned back to the fire, her chest tight.
The flames roared, consuming everything in their path. The heat was unbearable, even from this distance. The smoke was thick, choking, blotting out the last of the sunset.
She didn't know what this meant. Didn't know who had done it or why.
But she knew it was bad.
And she knew it wasn't over.
Dante turned away from the fire, his expression hard. He walked back toward the car, Marco and Vincenzo following.
When he reached Mila, he stopped.
"Get in."
She did.
He climbed in beside her, pulling the door shut. Marco started the engine, and the car pulled away from the docks.
Mila looked back through the rear window.
The fire was still burning.
And the smoke was still rising.