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“But it’s a conversation I’m trying to have with you.” There’s a slight edge to my voice because I have a feeling everyone is keeping something from me.

The elevator doors open, and he steps inside.

"Good night, Sunny."

38

DANTE

The warehouse is still burning when I arrive. Orange flames and black smoke fill up the night sky.

The police haven't arrived yet, and they won't for another twenty minutes. When they do, they'll find nothing that connects this building to the Di Zaro family.

Deno pulls the car to the curb two blocks out.

I step out of the car and join John Marco and Caruso at the perimeter. My brother looks furious, the kind of fury that lives beneath the flamboyance and surfaces at times like this.

"How long?" I ask.

"Fire started at eleven forty-two." Caruso reads from his phone. "Security cameras went dark six minutes before ignition. They cut the feeds remotely."

"Of course they did," John Marco says.

Caruso glances up. "Could be an inside job. Someone with access to security."

"Not one of ours," John Marco says.

Caruso frowns at the certainty in his voice. "You sound sure."

"Grazalov hires out," I say. "Tech mercenaries. Cyber thugs paid to break into the security system and override it. Tell our tech to start with contractors."

Caruso nods. "Our team is already on it. We'll know exactly who and how they did it."

I don't reply. He knows I expect nothing less. I know who is behind this, but I want to know who helped him, and by morning they’ll be dust.

I look at the scene. At the towering flames consuming the warehouse where forty million in product is housed.

By the morning it will be a smoldering pile of ash.

Because Grazalov wanted to send a message.

Message received, asshole.

Although, the message was received a lot earlier than Grazalov is aware.

That's why I had the product moved days ago.

Because I am always one step ahead.

John Marco's eyes find mine over Caruso's head, and we share a look that confirms Grazalov has pulled the trigger and declared war.

He turns back to the fire and scans the scene, absorbing everything into that photographic mind of his. "He wanted it hot, and he wanted it fast. This was never meant to look like an accident."

No. It wasn't.

This is theatre. Grazalov doesn't just want to hurt me; he wants me to know he can.

He wants the humiliation and the spectacle.