Dante's expression remained cold, unreadable as his men reviewed the data. The warehouse was silent except for the occasional hum of the city beyond, the distant sound of a passing train rattling along rusted tracks. Caleb stood still, his heartbeat steady, waiting for Dante's decision. He had played his part, moved every piece into place. But there was one last move to make.
Dante exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. "You did well bringing this to me. But that doesn't mean I trust you." Caleb expected that. He didn't need trust. He just needed Malik gone. "I didn't ask you to trust me," he said. "I asked you to look at the truth." Dante smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Truth," he repeated, shaking his head slightly. "In this business, truth is just another currency. And you, Caleb, just made yourself very expensive."
Caleb knew what was coming before Dante even shifted his stance. His body moved before his mind could process it. The flash of steel. The sharp, burning pain that tore through his side. Dante stepped back, wiping the blade against his sleeve, his gaze impassive. Caleb staggered, gripping his side, warmth spreading between his fingers. "You never planned to let me walk away." His voice was steady, but he could feel the weakness creeping in.
Dante tilted his head. "You should have known better." His men stepped forward, but Caleb wasn't done yet. He forced himself to move, twisting away, hand reaching for the concealed weapon at his waist. A gunshot rang out. Pain exploded in his shoulder, knocking him back. He hit the ground hard, his vision blurring.
He could hear Dante's voice, distant, almost indifferent. "Clean it up."
Footsteps. Movement. The cold press of metal against his skin.
And then—darkness.