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“And what business could you possibly have that would involve me?” He spreads his hands, gold rings glinting. “Last I checked, you made it clear the east side was off limits.”

“The east side is still off limits,” I reply coolly. “This is about Santos.”

At the mention of Santos’s name, Reyes’s expression hardens. Three years ago, Santos’s men executed Reyes’s cousin in a dispute over distribution rights. The body was returned in pieces.

“What about Santos?” His voice has lost its affected casualness.

I lean forward slightly. “He has a shipment coming in tomorrow night. Weapons, primarily, with a side of high-grade product. Enough to make it worth intercepting.”

Reyes narrows his eyes. “And you’re telling me this why? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

I allow myself a small laugh. “Let’s just say I have an interest in seeing this particular shipment… disrupted. And I can’t be connected to it.”

“So you want me to do your dirty work?” Reyes scoffs. Still, I can see the greed flickering in his eyes. “Why would I risk crossing the cartel?”

“Because you’ve wanted to hit Santos back for years,” I say simply. “And because the value of this shipment would transform your operation overnight.”

One of Reyes’s men shifts uncomfortably. The prospect of cartel retaliation clearly makes him nervous. Smarter than his boss.

“What’s the catch?” Reyes asks, dropping all pretense now. “You wouldn’t hand me this opportunity without something in it for you.”

“No catch. You get the shipment, I get deniability when certain parties ask why it never arrived.” I spread my hands. “We both get what we want.”

Reyes studies me, trying to find the lie. “And why should I trust that this isn’t a setup?”

I reach into my jacket and pull out a folded paper, sliding it across the table. “Dock number. Arrival time. Security rotations. Everything you need to make a clean hit, and I will keep Santos distracted.”

He unfolds the paper, eyes widening slightly at the details. It’s good information—accurate enough to get them to the right place at the right time, while missing the key detail that Santos’s men will be waiting for them.

“How do I know this is real?” he asks, tapping the paper.

“You don’t,” I reply bluntly. “That’s the nature of our business, isn’t it? Risk assessment. The question is: does the potential reward outweigh the risk?”

Reyes looks down at the paper again, greed warring with suspicion. Greed wins, as it almost always does with men like him.

“I don’t see much reward in this for me when I would have the cartel hunting me! Why give this to me?”

“Because I need it hit clean. No mess. No noise.”

He snorts. “Bullshit. If I jack this load, my name’s the first one Santos whispers when he loads his next clip.”

“No,” I say. “He won’t suspect you.”

Reyes scoffs and folds his arms across his chest.

“It will look like it was Mikhail’s men .”

That gets his attention.

He unfolds his arms. “Say that again.”

“I want you to take the shipment. I’ll make sure Mikhail’s crew gets spotted near the docks. Cameras. Witnesses. The usual misdirection. When the smoke clears, Santos is going to think the Russians stole from him.”

“And when he retaliates…” Reyes begins, the pieces clicking together.

“He hits Mikhail. Not you.”

He sits back, thoughtful now. The greed’s still there only it’s guarded.

“You want them to tear each other apart.”

“I want them distracted,” I say. “And when they are? Their borders loosen. Their eyes drift. And that’s when you move in.”

“On what?”

“Turf. Distribution lanes. Santos won’t be able to hold them and swing at Mikhail. You’ll have just enough time to dig your claws in, and I get the strip without having to make a deal with Santos.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you stay a mid-level pusher with a few dozen junkie runners and a dream that never gets out of the basement.”

I let that sit. He glances down at the paper again, and this time greed wins. He folds it, pocketing it like a ticket to something bigger.

“This better not be a goddamn setup.”

“If it were,” I say, “you’d already be dead.”

“We’ll need at least fifteen men,” he says, already planning. “Heavy weapons.”

I nod, as if this detail matters to me. In reality, the more men he brings, the more Santos will eliminate when they walk into the trap.

“Do what you need to do,” I tell him. “Just make sure it can’t be traced back to me.”

We flesh out a few details and Reyes leaves with a newfound swagger in his step, already counting money he’ll never see. Once he’s gone, Milo locks the door behind him.

“You think he bought it?” he asks.

“Completely.” I stand, brushing dust from my sleeve. “Greed makes men stupid, and Reyes was stupid to begin with.”

“And when Santos’s men kill them all?”

I shrug. “Mikhail said steal the shipment, he never said how.”

Milo nods. “And Reyes’s territory?”

“Santos’s. I just need to warn him now and hope he doesn’t want to go to war.” I walk toward the door, plans already forming.

As we step out into the night air, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly. One problem potentially solved. Now I just need to ensure Santos is prepared.

The board is set. The pieces are moving. By this time tomorrow, Reyes will be dead, Mikhail will be temporarily satisfied, and Santos will still consider me an ally, hopefully.

Not bad for a day’s work.

I check my watch; midnight as I dial Santos’s private number.

It’s a calculated move, calling at this hour.

Late enough to signal urgency, not so late that he’ll be unreachable.

Santos is a family man with rituals and routines, his wife and children sleeping in their fortified compound while he takes his last scotch of the night on the terrace, reviewing the day’s business.

The predictability of powerful men can be their greatest weakness, and in this case, it serves my purpose.

I need him clear-headed yet slightly off-balance.

Milo watches from across the room, his face half-shadowed in the dim light of my study. We’ve been partners long enough that he can read my intentions without words. He knows what’s at stake tonight.

Santos answers on the fourth ring. “Pressutti.” His voice is guarded, the slight accent more pronounced than usual. “It must be important for you to call at this hour.”

“It is.” I keep my tone measured, respectful while not deferential. “There’s a situation developing that concerns tomorrow’s shipment. One that requires immediate attention.”

A pause, then the sound of ice clinking against glass. “I’m listening.”

“The Russians are making moves,” I say, cutting straight to it. “Mikhail approached me directly. He wants your shipment intercepted.”

Santos’s breathing changes, becomes more controlled. “And you’re telling me this why? To warn me? Or to inform me of your intentions?”

“I’m telling you because our partnership has been profitable for both of us,” I reply. “And because Mikhail has underestimated both of us if he thinks I’d break faith over one shipment.”

“Noble sentiments,” Santos says, his tone dry as dust. “That doesn’t explain how Mikhail knows about a shipment that very few people are aware of.”

I expected this. Santos didn’t build an empire by being trusting.

“There’s a leak somewhere,” I admit. “Not on my end, but the information is out there. And it gets worse. I was asked to intercept the shipment.”

“Why would he come to you to do that?”

“He has Fallon.” I pause and so does he.

“He’s hoping to start a war between us.”

“Yes, and Diego Reyes and his crew are planning to hit the shipment tomorrow night.”

“Reyes?” The name comes out as a curse. “That dog doesn’t have the spine.”

“He does because he thinks he will get away with it since I gave him the dock number, arrival time, security rotations. He’s bringing at least fifteen men, heavy weapons.”

The line goes quiet for so long I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. Then Santos speaks, his voice deadly soft. “You did what?”

“I need it to look convincing and you don’t want your shipment stolen, so I’m sending him, killing two birds with one stone. Mikhail will think I organized it, you get to keep your shipment and wipe out Reyes.”

“So,” Santos says finally, “I have a business partner using local gangs to disrupt my business and calling to warn me.” He makes a sound that might be a laugh. “Why not just tell Mikhail you handled it? Take credit for a job you never did?”

“Because the moment that shipment arrives intact, he’d know I lied,” I explain. “And then we’d have open war with the Russians, which neither of us wants right now and my wife will be dead.”

“So what are you proposing?”

Now we reach the heart of it. I catch Milo’s eye across the room, giving him a slight nod.

“A dummy shipment,” I say. “Empty containers, minimal product, just enough to make it look legitimate. Let Reyes and his crew think they’re hitting the real thing. Your men will be waiting, along with mine. We wipe out Reyes and his entire operation in one night.”

“And the actual shipment?”

“Delayed by twenty-four hours. Different route, different dock. I’ll personally ensure its safe arrival.”

Santos considers this, and I can almost see him weighing the variables, the potential gains and losses. He’s a businessman first, cartel leader second. Family man third. All three aspects need to be satisfied with any decision.

“Why would you put your men at risk for my shipment?” he asks finally.

“Because Reyes has been pushing at my eastern territory for months,” I reply smoothly.

“Fallon is pregnant. Mikhail has her, and this was what he requested to get her back. This also gives you a chance to eliminate Reyes. And because I value our arrangement, Santos. Long-term stability outweighs short-term opportunities.”

The sound of ice clinking again, then a slow exhale. “My men will handle Reyes. I don’t need your help for that.”

“Of course not,” I agree, careful not to wound his pride. “But having my men there makes it look like I kept my end of the deal just to make sure your men don’t shoot mine.”

“Very well,” he says after another pause. “We’ll do it your way. A dummy shipment, a welcoming committee for Reyes and his fools. My men will coordinate with your people on the details.”

“Thank you for your trust,” I say, meaning it. Trust between men like us is rare and valuable.

“Don’t mistake pragmatism for trust, Leone,” Santos replies. “We’ll speak tomorrow after it’s done.”

The line goes dead. I place the phone down carefully on my desk.

“He’s in,” I tell Milo, who nods once.

Milo leaves to make the arrangements, and I turn to the window, gazing out at the city lights. By this time tomorrow, Reyes will be eliminated, Santos will be appeased, and Mikhail will believe his pressure tactics are working.

The phone rings. Not my private line this time; it’s the secure comms link to my inner circle. Milo, who has re-entered the study with the quiet efficiency of a ghost, glances at the console. “Vince,” he says, his voice flat. I nod, taking the receiver.

“Vincent.”

“Boss,” Vince’s voice crackles slightly. “We’re at the cabin. Or what matches Nathan’s description of it. Blue door, remote as hell. Looks like Grandma Walton’s fucking holiday home.”

“Any sign of them? Fallon? Rebecca?” I keep my voice even, betraying none of the unease coiling in my gut.

“Negative. Perimeter sweep shows nothing obvious. There’s a barn, but no one is here. Doesn’t look like anyone has been here in years.”

“Right, check out the surroundings, put up some wild game cams and head back for now. I will need your help with this shipment; you both need to be back by tomorrow.” I hang up.

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. It could be Rebecca playing games, leading us on a wild goose chase. Or it could be the real deal.

“You think it’s a trap?” Milo asks.

“Everything is a trap until proven otherwise,” I say, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.