The Maybach slid out of Mulberry Street like a sleek shadow, its black frame hugging the road as the engine's purr deepened into a growl. The night was heavy, the air damp with that faint metallic tang that came before rain.
Behind them, the two cars gave chase, their headlights slicing through the darkness in twin beams. Tires whispered over wet asphalt, but Dante wasn't in any rush. No—he wanted them close. He wanted them to think they were in control.
"Next street," Dante instructed, his voice as calm as if he were ordering coffee.
The driver obeyed, turning sharply into a narrow alleyway lit only by a flickering streetlamp. The yellow light painted everything in fractured shadows.
"Stop here," Dante said.
The Maybach rolled to a halt. The driver's pulse thundered in his ears. He glanced at Dante, waiting for the signal to run.
Instead, Dante's eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, watching the men spill out of their cars. He counted them—six total. All armed.
