The package arrived at 3:47 a.m.
Dante was in his office, staring out at his backyard through floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected his own hollow-eyed stare back at him.
He hadn't slept.
Hadn't eaten.
Hadn't done anything but coordinate strikes, interrogate informants, and watch security footage until the images blurred together into a single loop of violence and failure.
Marco had left an hour ago to oversee a raid on one of Moretti's shell companies. Vincenzo was downstairs coordinating with their contacts in the police department, making sure the official investigation stayed far away from what Dante was actually doing.
The knock on the door was soft. Hesitant.
"Come in."
One of the newer guards—Anthony, maybe, or Andrew—stepped inside, his face pale, his hands clutching a small cardboard box like it might explode. "Sir. This just arrived at the gate. The courier said it was urgent. For you specifically."
Dante's entire body went still. "Who delivered it?"
