The metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of smoke filled the night air, clinging to Dante’s skin as he stepped out of the car.

The shipment dock loomed ahead, its skeletal structure illuminated by the sickly orange glow of fires that refused to die.

The destruction was absolute.

Dante’s sharp gaze swept over the scene, noting the charred remains of shipping containers, the twisted wreckage of steel frames, and the scattered bodies of his men.

Angelo stood at his side, his normally stoic expression shadowed by grim tension.

“Bastards didn’t just attack us,” Angelo muttered, his voice low. “They sent a damn message.”

Dante didn’t respond immediately.

He...