Dante didn't bother to sit down at his desk.
Instead, he stood behind it, his arms crossed over his chest, and his back to the room as he stared out through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city stretched below him, a concrete jungle where most of the prey didn't even know they were prey.
It shouldn't surprise him anymore. The sheep were always going to be oblivious to the true dangers around them.
Letting out a long sigh, he closed his eyes for a moment as he forcefully pushed the thoughts of that woman out of his head.
When the last man entered his office, the door clicked shut behind him. Dante waited a full second longer than necessary before he turned to look at the people waiting for him.
There was easily 20 people or more in the room, and not a single one of them spoke.
His captains stood they way they had been trained to stand—still and alert, their eyes forward, waiting for him to say something. These weren't foot soldiers or guards. They weren't errand runners.
These were only some of the captains Dante controlled.
Men who ran their own territory. Men who bled for him. Men who didn't waste his time unless something had gone wrong.
And something had.
Marco Russo stood closest to the desk, his black suit jacket still on and his dark hair slicked back with military precision. Underboss and best friend, he was the only man in the room who spoke without needing permission.
"The meet wasn't supposed to be public," Marco cut in, voice tight. "That was the first mistake."
Dante let his gaze move slowly across the room, taking inventory. No one spoke. No one shifted. They knew better.
"Tell me," he ordered, voice calm and level, "how a private meeting turned into a public execution attempt."
"It shouldn't have happened," replied Marco, his shoulders stiffening as he looked at Dante. They both knew where they blame was supposed to lay... and it was with him. He should have done his research, been more observant... more something so that it never got this far.
"No shit."
Marco exhaled through his nose. "The café was neutral ground. There were no red flags, no guns visible, no soldiers. The other side requested it that way, claimed it would make everyone more comfortable."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"And you believed them."
"We vetted the location," another captain added. He was an older man who had territory on the East side. "No obvious threats. No planted men inside."
"Obvious," Dante muttered. "No obvious men planted inside."
Marco continued, stepping closer. "The deal was supposed to be about supply routes. Port access. Storage. They wanted to trade a percentage of the profits for safe passage."
Dante finally turned. "And what they wanted was leverage."
No one argued.
"They were late," Marco went on. "Changed seats twice. The man across from you kept leaning forward, then back. Touching his jacket. Adjusting his chair."
Dante remembered.
He remembered the shift in posture. The way the man's breathing changed. The pause before the gun came out.
He also remembered the weight that hit him from the side.
"The shooter wasn't meant to survive," Dante added quietly.
"No," Marco agreed. "But he did. Barely. We have him in the basement for more questioning."
Dante's fingers curled against the desk.
"Tell me about the woman."
The room shifted slightly as every man there knew better than to pretend they didn't know who he meant.
"The bystander," one of the captains offered. "She wasn't on any of our lists."
"She shouldn't have been there," another muttered.
"She shouldn't have moved," a third snapped.
Dante's eyes lifted at the third speaker and the room went silent.
"She shouldn't have done a lot of things," Dante said evenly. "And yet she did."
Marco watched him closely. "She's only alive because you pulled her out. She owes you her life."
"She's alive because she moved first. Not to mention I wouldn't have been alive to pull her out if she hadn't taken the bullet meant for me."
The men in the room shared an uneasy look, but no one could disagree with him.
Dante gestured once. "Anything else?"
The captains exchanged glances. One by one, they gave short updates. Damage control. Witness cleanup. The café would be closed for "renovations" until tomorrow morning. Police reports had already been redirected.
When Dante nodded, they took it as dismissal, and the room emptied quickly until only Marco remained.
He waited until the door shut before moving forward and placing a thick folder on the desk. Then, after a beat, a laptop.
The laptop was old with scuffed edges and a faded pink cherry blossom decal stuck crookedly on the corner of the lid.
It didn't belong in this room, but the idea of taking it out stuck in Dante's throat.
"Her name is Mila Hart," Marco started. "Twenty-four. Aged out of foster care at eighteen. No parents. No siblings. No fixed address until six years ago."
Dante picked up the folder and placed it gently in front of him, but didn't open it yet.
"Keep going."
"She's been living in a studio apartment downtown. And when I say studio, I mean no bedroom, bad plumbing, unreliable heat, and front door that doesn't lock properly."
Dante's eyes narrowed as he thought about Mila living in those types of conditions. It wasn't safe. "What are you not telling me?"
Marco huffed a quiet laugh. "When I finally got upstairs, the door had been kicked in."
"Recently?"
"Very. The place looked like a hurricane tore through it. Anything that had a drawer in it was dumped, the couch had been completely ripped open and pillows completely destroyed. Even her mattress was slashed and it was so thin that there was no way to hide if something had been in there other than springs. Basically, there was shit everywhere."
Marco shook his head as he continued. "I'm pretty sure she didn't do it. Whoever went through that place was looking for something specific."
Dante tapped the folder once. "Was she planted? Is that why she saved me? So that I would bring her here and she could be a mole for one of our enemies?"
Marco didn't hesitate. He slid the laptop forward and tapped his finger on it. "Honestly? I don't think so. I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Dante opened the folder now, scanning quickly.
"She works odd jobs," Marco continued. "Diners. Offices work. Cleaning houses. Temp shifts that pay cash. Nothing consistent. Nothing that screams payroll."
"How much money is in her account?"
Marco snorted. "Forty-five dollars and change in her checking account."
Dante stilled.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Dante leaned back slightly, eyes flicking to the laptop.
"And this?"
"Hers," Marco replied. "It was at the café. Left behind in the chaos. Locked. Encrypted. I couldn't get past the boot screen. I figured it was better that we had it than it be lost in the police station and traced back to her."
Dante's fingers brushed the cherry blossom sticker.
"That's not something someone with forty-five dollars carries."
"No," Marco agreed. "Which is interesting."
Dante's gaze sharpened. "Any criminal history?"
"None."
"Associations?"
"Nothing that sticks."
"Education?"
Marco hesitated. "Some high school, but it was inconsistent with lots of moving around. No degree. But her transcripts are… odd."
"Odd how?"
"She tested out of most of her required courses. Placed high enough to get on the honor roll before being forced to drop out."
Dante closed the folder slowly.
Silence stretched between them.
"She hasn't told you her name," Marco observed.
"No."
"And yet she's in your house."
"Yes."
Marco leaned back against the desk, studying his friend. "You don't usually keep strays."
"She isn't a stray."
Marco lifted a brow. "Then what is she?"
Dante thought of the way she'd moved. The way she'd shoved him down without thinking. The way she'd worried about his sheets while bleeding into them.
"A liability," Dante answered. "And a debt."
Marco nodded once. "What do you want to do with her?"
Dante didn't answer immediately.
He turned the laptop over in his hands, weighing it.
"Whoever tore her apartment apart was thorough," Marco added. "They didn't take anything. Just looked."
"So they knew she was important," Dante murmured.
"Or they were trying to find out if she was."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"She's staying," he said finally.
Marco didn't look surprised.
"I want everything," Dante continued. "Who's been watching her. Who found her first. Who got to her apartment before we did."
"And the laptop?"
Dante's mouth curved slightly. Not a smile.
"Bring me someone who can open it."
Marco exhaled. "You think she knows what's on it?"
"I think," Dante replied, eyes darkening, "that Mila Hart is a lot more than a bystander who got a two dollar coffee at the wrong café."
Marco studied him for a long moment.
"Be careful," he warned. "People who jump in front of bullets tend to change things."
Dante closed the laptop and set it on his desk with a snort.
"She already has."