Anger coils low and vicious in my chest. “Unacceptable.”
Violet didn’t just create a drug. She created something no one else can replicate without her. And Rinaldi knows it now, too.
“That means he needs her,” I say. “Or he needs her silenced.”
Mav doesn’t argue.
“And it gets worse,” he adds. “This wasn’t just counterfeit. Someone had to get the realZfirst. They took it from one of our parties and handed it off to Rinaldi’s crew.”
That lands slow. Heavy.
If Rinaldi’s people touched Zephyra, someone inside my operation made it possible. Someone who thought they could move product through my world without consequence.
“Find them,” I say quietly.
“Already working on it.”
“No loose ends,” I warn, my voice turning to ice. “Whoever did this doesn’t walk away.”
Mav nods once and pulls out his phone, already issuing orders. I barely register it. My attention has shifted back to the monitor—to the still frame frozen on the screen.
Violet.
The warehouse smells like oil and damp concrete, the air thick with cold and tension. A single bulb swings overhead, casting uneven shadows across rusted containers, and stained floors.
Four lieutenants sit in silence as Daniel Vasquez kneels in the center of the room, blood darkening the cement beneath him. He’d sat at my table not a month ago. Now his face is swollen, one eye nearly shut, and fear pours off him in waves.
I cross my arms. “You know why you’re here.”
“Boss—please—” Vasquez chokes out.
Maverick moves before I say another word, driving a brutal kick into his ribs. Vasquez collapses with a wet cough, blood splattering the floor.
“I don’t repeat myself,” I say calmly, watching my men tense. “You stoleZfrom Cami’s last party. You handed it to Rinaldi’s crew. And you thought I wouldn’t notice.” I crouch in front of him, the swinging bulb throwing half my face into shadow. “I can tolerate mistakes. Betrayal is something else entirely.”
“It wasn’t me,” he gasps. “I didn’t know they were going to—”
A silenced gun presses to his temple. Maverick’s. Not mine. I haven’t lifted a weapon. I don’t need to.
I roll my sleeves up slowly. “I have the footage, Vasquez. I watched you lift the bag from the bar. I watched you make the trade. And when they laced it with fentanyl and used it to kill people—including Alessandra Moore—you sat back and played shocked.”
His shoulders slump. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s the problem,” I say softly. “You should have.” I straighten and nod once.
The shot is muffled. Final.
Silence follows as Vasquez collapses, lifeless at my feet. No one moves. No one speaks.
“This,” I say evenly, stepping over the body, “is what happens to traitors.”
The room absorbs the message.
Maverick meets my gaze. “Rinaldi’s crew?”
“I want every location,” I reply. “Safehouses. Supply lines. Anyone connected.”
“And the girl?”
