At 5am, I expected to see people here. Patrons drinking liquor, smoking cigarettes, and watching scantily clad girls wrap their long legs around the shiny silver poles, all the while getting dollar bills thrown their way. But it is empty. Quiet. Another thing that doesn’t sit well with me.

The front door was unlocked and had no security, so we walked straight in. But there are no bar staff or waitresses, no dancers, no music. Not even a cleaner, even though they desperately need one.

My hand tightens on the cold metal of my gun, as we continue through the main room, toward the faint light we see coming from under the door at the back.

Our team is small, but here with Carter by my side, I hope I can get this done and buried. Our getaway car is parked down the street, waiting for us if needed. I don’t desire bloodshed this morning; I am merely here to ask questions and demand answers. But I don’t mind seeing grown men cry, and if the color red ends up across this grimy floor, then I would say I have earned my keep today.

We are halfway to the back door when it opens. My team spreads quickly as I remain at the front to meet whoever comes through the door head on. Dominic Russo walks through with five of his men behind him and the minute they see us, everyone stiffens. His men don’t reach for their guns. They are not that stupid. They know who I am. The minute they raise a gun at me, they know that they have a death sentence.

“Dominic, I love what you have done with the place,” I say sarcastically as I saunter toward him. I raise my hands, showcasing the shithole of the place, but keep my gun firmly wrapped in my right hand, while I raise my eyebrows at him in mock delight.

“Dante. I wasn’t expecting a visit today,” he says, sounding a bit out of breath, clearly surprised by our appearance. I see a bead of sweat travel down the side of his pocket-scarred face.

Dominic Russo and his brother Federico may be gangsters, but that is their only appealing quality. And that’s saying something. Italian with dark hair and brown eyes, they are skinny with large pointy noses, bad teeth, and carry an air of arrogance that has yet to be earned. I often observe people and wonder what type of animal they look like. These Russo men are a year apart in age and both look like rats.

Filthy, pathetic rats.

“I am full of surprises, Dominic, and it appears that so are you.” I stalk closer. My eyes don’t leave his, waiting for a tell, and I get it. His right eye twitches, and I know whatever he is about to say is a lie.