“Gabe called me on the way here,” I say. “He and Wells found something my father was tracking before he died. It ties back to a fentanyl shipment moving through the ports.”
That gets his attention.
Vin’s smile fades. He sets his glass down and rubs at his forehead, wiping invisible sweat, reorienting.
I rest one hand on the bar and put the other in my pocket as I turn to face him. “I wanted to compare notes. Walk me through everything you know about this.”
“Fentanyl?” He lets out a short breath. “I know it’s flooding street-level markets all over the city. What do you mean by a shipment?”
“I mean that’s what the Duvalls wanted the lanes for,” I say. “And when my father shut them down, they already had hundreds of millions on the water. He became an obstacle they couldn’t afford.”
Vin stares at me. The bar noise dulls around us.
“Holy fucking shit,” he mutters. “Fentanyl would never have flown for Robert. How did Wells find out?”
I give him the rundown Gabe walked me through. The photographer. The surveillance. The way my father cross-referenced faces and manifests instead of sounding alarms too early.
Vin listens without interrupting, his jaw tightening as the pieces settle.
“When?” he asks, rubbing the salt-and-pepper stubble along his chin.
“The day he was killed,” I say. “Duvall learned what he knew through the photographer that same morning. It moved fast.”
“Goddammit.” Vin exhales hard. “Your father and I had a meeting the next morning. I bet he was going to bring me up to speed then.”
“He didn’t tell either of us,” I say. “He carried it alone.”
Vin nods once. “Everything is making so much more sense now. I wondered how this all exploded so quickly, how the Duvalls put all of this together, and if they were even equipped to step into his shoes. It was never about that. It was only the shipping lanes and trafficking of their drugs.”
He goes quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the bar top as all of it sinks in.
“Weren’t you two supposed to go to the warehouse that night?” I ask, replaying the timing. “And you went alone?”
“Yes.” His voice stays steady. “I called him after I talked to Dane and Ronnie, confirmed it was more of the same. When I couldn’t reach him, I figured he’d gone home. Maybe he came looking for me. I don’t know. I never spoke to him again.”
The words settle between us, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with blame. One missed call. One wrong assumption. Too many things balanced on timing that can’t be revisited.
I nod slowly. The facts line up. The timeline holds.
What doesn’t sit right is how much my father carried on his own. How he kept moving forward without loopingeither of us in, like he was buying time he didn’t end up having.
Vin watches me for a beat. “He was always like that. Took the weight himself. Thought he could keep everyone else clean by holding the mess alone.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He did.”
Silence stretches, not uncomfortable, just full. The kind that comes when there’s nothing left to clarify, only consequences still unfolding.
Vin reaches for his glass, then sets it back down untouched. “Whatever they were planning, it stops now. No drugs. No lanes. Not on our docks. Not ever.”
“I know,” I say. “That line doesn’t move.”
His jaw tightens in agreement. “Good.”
I take a breath, feeling the shift settle. Answers are finally in place. Not relief. Not closure.
Just the understanding that whatever comes next won’t be clean, and it won’t be quick.
TWENTY-SEVEN
