The Commission man raises a hand for quiet. Horns die for him. Cameras lean in. That gives Isabella a window not measured in seconds.
She steps forward the length of her name and addresses the crowd, not the two men at the rail.
“This port moves for those who sign with clean hands,” she says, and her voice carries because she knows exactly where to place it. “Today the truce closes and the city keeps breathing because we claimed a week where no one dies for routes. Anyone who tried to write another ending will hear himself played to a room that signs checks.”
Attention shifts. Not all of it, but enough.
Orfeo slips the bag from Adrian’s hand and tucks it behind his coat. Somewhere far from here, men who like control put headphones on and learn what it costs to keep pretending.
Then something small and perfect happens. A bump at the rail. Metal kisses metal. The kind of accidental sound that makes liars talk more to cover it.
The fixer, Orfeo, swallows and speaks again, trying to regain ownership of the story.
“After the ribbon, east lot, crane three,” he says. “She goes down the stairs. Car inside. Outcome reads resolved.”
He says she because he can't train it out.
My throat tightens. For a flash I see Isabella on stairs. I see a car door open like a mouth. I see the river waiting, patient as it always is.
I cut the image off because images make men sloppy, and I don't have room for sloppy today.
“Enough,” I say, and I take Orfeo’s sleeve.
He's quick. He slides out of his coat and leaves it in my hand. Adrian bolts right.
Nino is already there, like the fence grew teeth. He puts Adrian against a hood without scuffing paint. No punches. No drama. Just containment. Adrian shrieks like air hurt him.
The fixer tries subtle. He steps behind pallets like he wants shade. Smokestack’s voice comes through my wrist, calm, almost bored.
“He’s moving left,” Smokestack says. “Pallet line.”
I don't chase. I retrieve the recorder, and I cut.
I meet Orfeo where men go when they want to be alone with bad decisions. I pin his wrist to the rail and hold him until the wedding ring leaves a circle on paint. He resists for one heartbeat, still believing loyalty might protect him.
“I won’t run my mouth.”
I press the barrel of a gun under his chin.
He remembers he likes having a mouth.
“Your boss?” I ask. “Who tried to take out the Valentine heir. Say his name.”
He spits once, bitter, defeated, and then he gives.
“Carraway,” he says. “Benedict Carraway.”
The name lands too clean for this dock.
“And his right hand?”
“Adrian Bavga.”
Isabella hears it through the recorder and the noise and the blood in her own ears. She doesn't look at me. She keeps her eyes on the parade and, without moving her mouth, she gives the order.
“Play,” she breathes. “Now.”
Our hand in the PA booth confirms, “Playing.”
