The heavy mahogany door slammed shut, the thunderous crash echoing off the concrete walls of the soundproofed sanctuary. Dante Russo loomed over his desk like a storm system trapped in a glass jar, all six-foot-four of his broad-shouldered frame vibrating with a quiet, vicious rage. The top three buttons of his charcoal suit jacket were stretched taut over a chest that heaved with controlled breathing, his tailored sleeves rolled back just enough to expose the dark, jagged ink creeping up his forearms. He stared at the glowing tablet resting on the polished wood—a single red notification blinking back at him, confirming that three cargo containers loaded with high-value contraband had been seized at the docks on his watch, in his port. An involuntary muscle slammed in his jaw as he raked a hand through his dark hair, gripping the strands tight enough to hurt just to ground himself. His territory was supposed to be airtight, a flawless machine fueled by fear, precise bribes, and ruthless discipline, yet some middle-management idiot had managed to misplace an entire shipment under the noses of the coast guard. The sheer stupidity of it was a personal insult, a hairline fracture in the foundation of the empire he had spent a decade bleeding to construct. Dante’s knuckles turned bone-white against the edge of the heavy desk, his leather gloves stretching to their limit as he resisted the urge to rip the thousand-dollar slab of wood from its bolts and put it through the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the skyline. He began to pace, his heavy dress shoes striking the Persian rug with calculated, rhythmic thuds that sounded like a war drum. Every movement was loaded with dangerous kinetic energy, the raw power of a apex predator pacing the perimeter of a cage that was far too small for him. Dante reached into his coat, pulled out a heavy silver lighter, and flicked the flame alive, staring directly into the fire until his vision blurred into orange sparks.