★ Prologue ★

                              — D O M I N I C • P O V —

The warehouse was quiet—but only on the surface.

My crew sat around the long steel table, bodies loose, eyes sharp. Hands rested near weapons or phones, ready to move at the slightest shift in the air. No one spoke. No one needed to. The tension did it for us.

I sat at the head of the table, a glass of amber liquor steady in my hand, watching the single bulb above catch fire on its surface.

The city hummed somewhere beyond the concrete walls, distant and irrelevant. In here, every breath mattered.

Two women lingered beside my chair, shadows in silk and perfume. Their eyes flicked toward me, daring, testing.

I didn't acknowledge them.

They meant nothing.

Power meant everything.

Across from me sat the Moscow-born Bratva boss—the one whose name traveled in whispers from Russia to New York.

His cigar trembled between his fingers as he tapped ash onto the table, eyes darting to my men, then back to me. He thought he was here to intimidate me.

Cute.

"Shipment," I said calmly, my voice slicing through the

silence. "Exact numbers. No delays. No excuses."

His jaw tightened.

"One wrong move," I continued, swirling my drink, "and you'll wish you stayed in Moscow."

The room held its breath.

Fear always showed first—in the hands, in the eyes, in the silence after my words. And I let it sit there, heavy and suffocating.

Because this wasn't a negotiation.

This was a reminder.