Promised to The Don
The warehouse sits near the docks, a slab of concrete and steel that looks abandoned to anyone passing by.
No signs. No markings. Just another forgotten building in a city full of them. Inside, however, it runs like a well oiled machine. Lights hum overhead. Pallets are stacked in clean, measured rows, my men move with purpose, not chatter. No one wastes energy speaking unless necessary. Maybe it’s because I am here, I don’t know.
Enzo walks beside me, tablet in hand, already reciting numbers before I ask.
“Forty-two crates total. Six delayed at customs, but our contact confirmed release by morning. Inventory matches the manifest.”