My stomach drops. I know exactly what “art collection” she means. Spent five years looking at those frames on Vicente’s walls, the elaborately tattooed skin stretched and mounted. The Haruki-kai’s oyabun, flayed and displayed as a warning.
She pauses. “I’ll learn more as I stay close to Vera. If I hear anything about method or specific players, you’ll know.”
There’s a real threat converging on Vicente and Arturo right now, and Nina’s walking into their compound on Thursday.
“The name Rafael Marcano,” I say. “Has it come up?”
She considers. “I’ve heard it. But not connected to the contract. He’s circling, yes, but seems separate. Different agenda.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Why? You think he’s involved?”
“We’re tracking him. Thought he might be the threat.”
“Maybe he is. Maybe he’s not. But the contract’s real either way.” She tilts her head. “Could be he’s using the chaos as cover. Could be he’s just another predator smelling blood.”
So Rafael’s still a question mark. The hit could be him, could be Yakuza vendetta, could be Serbian payback, could be all of them converging at once.
“Targets of opportunity?” I ask.
“Anyone close to them. Family, associates.” Her eyes fix on mine. “Anyone who matters.”
Nina matters to them, which makes her exactly the kind of leverage an assassination team would consider.
I close the file, slide the phone back. “You did good work.”
“I’m not finished.” She settles back against the car. “Vera trusts me now. She thinks I’m her friend, her confidante. Her father likes me—sees potential use. I’ll stay close, learn more.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
She pushes off the Mercedes, walks past me toward the stairwell.
Then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing down the concrete stairs.
I stand there alone in the parking structure, cold wind cutting through from the open sides, and feel the weight of what she just handed me.
A contract on Vicente and Arturo. Active. Assassins already positioning.
Part of me—the ugly, honest part—wonders if I should just let it happen. Vicente dead means never having to face him again. No more threat of exposure, no more psychological hold. Just a closed chapter.
But Nina would lose clients she’s genuinely helping, ruse or not. Callie and Mason are tangled up with that family now. And if I’m being honest with myself—I don’t want Vicente dead. I want to prove I’m not still owned by him. Can’t do that if he’s a corpse.
I should go to Nina’s.
Instead I drive to my hotel in Culver City. Extended stay, came furnished with generic art and a stiff bedspread that says temporary in every language. I checked in two weeks ago and haven’t added anything personal—no photos, no books, nothing that would take more than five minutes to pack. Tactical living. Easy to abandon if needed.
The thought tastes sour.
I drop my keys on the nightstand, pull out my laptop, transfer Tatiana’s encrypted file to the secure server. McIntyre will want a full briefing in the morning. Wyatt too—this is DEA-relevant intelligence, cross-agency coordination, all the bureaucratic bullshit that suddenly matters when there’s a credible threat.
My phone buzzes.
WYATT: How’d it go with T?
I stare at the message. Should be simple to answer. But my fingers hover over the keyboard, not typing.
CHRIS: Good. Got confirmation. Will brief tomorrow.
WYATT: You coming back tonight?
