Dominic’s POV

The warehouse sits on the edge of the harbor, an empty skeleton of rust and silence. Salt hangs in the air, heavy enough to taste. I picked the place deliberately, neutral ground, no cameras, no distractions.

The kind of place men like Stanley think they can control. The wire itches under my collar. A small mic, thin as thread, pressed flat against my chest.

The agents made me repeat the phrase twice before I left their car: “Don’t provoke him. Keep him talking.” Easy ...