Page 62

Don Iscari walks in like he owns the oxygen. Late, of course. Flanked by two guards in suits a size too tight, like bloated security props who’d fold the second bullets fly. He’s got this fake smile plastered on, the kind that never quite reaches the eyes.

"Lazaro," he says, extending a hand I don’t take. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know why we’re here," I say, voice low and even. I stay seated. Let him stand while we sit. Let him feel the shift already happening in the room.

He chuckles, settling across from us. "You’re upset about the message, I assume. Business is complicated. Loyalty isn’t as simple as choosing sides."

Calista taps the iPad, screen lighting up.

"You’re right," she says, tone clipped, crisp. "Which is why we brought receipts."

Iscari’s smile falters. Just a little.

Calista swipes through the first folder. "Seven offshore accounts. Traced to bribes from De Corsi’s shell corporations. Cyprus. Panama. Zurich. I can forward the transactions if you want to double-check."

He blinks.

She goes on. "Then there’s this—an agreement signed with ‘Marius Lacroix,’ a De Corsi alias, two years ago. In exchange for turning a blind eye to the trafficking pipeline running through your Valencia docks. You remember that?"

"That’s hearsay—"

She hits play on a voice recording. It’s grainy, but clear enough to make his face drain two shades. His voice. Zano’s. Numbers. Code names. Shipment routes.

"We cleaned this audio up last night," she says smoothly. "Lucrezia has a sound engineer with a nasty gift for clarity."

Iscari shifts, tugging at his collar.

I lean forward slightly, just enough to watch him sweat.

"You want to talk business, fine. Let’s talk power. Zano’s losing it. You know it. Every name we sent that dossier to? They’re backing away. Publicly, quietly, doesn’t matter. You’re the last one standing in his corner. Makes you either stupid, or expendable."

"You wouldn’t dare—"

I cut him off. "I wouldn’t need to. We’d just leak the file. Let your rivals tear you apart piece by piece. The press would have a field day. Your reputation wouldn’t survive the week."

He swallows. Loud. His hands twitch in his lap.

Calista leans back, poised, calm, deadly. "But we’re offering you an out. Cut ties with Zano. Publicly. Pledge your support to the Virelli Syndicate, and we don’t bury you in headlines."

I can see it—all the calculations firing behind his eyes. Loss, gain, exposure, survival.

He exhales slowly. "You’ll protect my routes? My family?"

"We’ll make you richer than you were under Zano," I reply. "And alive. That’s always a bonus."

Another pause.

Then he nods, slowly. "Fine. You have my allegiance."

Calista lifts her gaze from the screen and locks eyes with him. "Say it again."

He clears his throat. "I pledge loyalty to the Virelli Syndicate."

I smile, slow and sharp. "Good. Because the next meeting wouldn’t have ended in words."

He tries to match my smile. Fails.

We rise.