I correct him, "Ex. Briefly. She admitted it right before the last shovel of dirt hit."
Damiano's cocky half-smile vanishes. "She say why?"
"She got paid," I answer. "Cash. Hand-to-hand. No name, no face."
"Of course," Alessio mutters. It's always fucking cash, always someone getting paid to take out the middleman, or, in this case, poison the whole fucking supply chain.
"That's the problem," I meet his gaze, "they didn't contaminate the entire supply, only random doses."
Alessio isn't the only one cursing about that piece of information. It implies anything but randomness. Somebody wants to destroy our reputation.
"Any description?" Damiano is already reaching for his tablet, his phone, whatever electronic leash he prefers today.
Enzo gives it to him. "Mexican-looking. That's all she gave us."
Alessio chews on that, working his jaw hard from side to side. "Cartels have been sniffing around. Wouldn't be the first time they tried to dip a toe."
Enzo shakes his head. "Doesn't feel like them."
I meet his gaze, and in that instant, we're back in a basement in Henderson, five years ago, the air thick with bleach and hornet-nest panic as we negotiated with a cartel rep who had more tattoos than skin. The cartel doesn't do subtle. They don't hide behind women, and they sure as fuck don't leave loose threads.
"No," I say. "It doesn't."
Gabriel—who has been patient, almost saintly, in the background—finally speaks. "They want us chasing the wrong people," he thinks out loud, as if reading my mind.
"Exactly," I reply, and it's almost a relief to hear him confirm it.
There are two kinds of men in this life: the ones who crave chaos, and the ones who surf its crest and never let it wet their shoes. The first group dies, eventually. The second group is the reason Vegas still exists.
These men? They surf. So do I.
"Someone wants fallout," Gabriel continues, eyes never leaving mine.
"Or wanted us chasing shadows," Damiano adds.
"Someone cut our coke to make us look weak, to force our hand," I summarize for the record. "They want bodies. They want spectacle. They want to see if pressure makes us fracture." I let my gaze move around the table. "If the heat gets high enough, men start asking who failed. Who let it happen. Who's talking. They're betting we'll turn inward. That we'll start hunting each other instead of them."
Alessio, ever the pragmatist, cracks his knuckles and grins. "Are we going to disappoint them, Boss?"
I look around the table, at the faces that have passed through so much pain and so much money that the difference between the two is barely discernible. "No," I say. "We're going to salt the fucking earth with their blood."
Enzo pours himself another drink, but it's not a toast. It's the chemical necessity of a man who knows the score. "What's the play?"
"Damiano," I order, "pull every camera feed you can. Casinos, clubs, streets, back channels. I want every frame of Ann's movement for the last month."
He nods, already flicking through his phone. "I'll find her. And whoever paid her."
"Alessio," I order, "street level. Quiet questions. I want to know who's talking, who's spreading rumors, who's suddenly got more cash than sense. Any new faces, any old enemies crawling back out of the strip."
He smirks, the implication clear. "I'll listen with my fists."
It's Gabe's turn. "I want you on counter-surveillance. Anyone circling politics, law, media, anyone who profits from us fighting ourselves. Track every story, every leak. I want to know who benefits, and I want to know it before I read about it on the news."
Gabriel sits up straighter, as if the assignment is a benediction. "Already on it." He nods.
"And keep your personal life clean," I add, because it's not just a joke, and he knows it.
Gabe grins, sharp and tired. "Always do."
