"Was he out doing deliveries?"
"Checking right now," Bello holds up what I'm guessing is Steven's phone.
I walk slowly through the living space, cataloging details. Windows. Door locks. The counter where the product would have been set down. This wasn't a smash-and-grab. This was intimate.
"He trusted someone," I venture.
"Yes," Enzo agrees. "Or someone made sure he didn't notice."
I stop near the kitchen, staring at the empty counter; the absence is louder than anything else in the room.
"This wasn't meant to wipe us out," I continue. "If it were, they'd have laced the entire stash."
"They want fear," Enzo speculates. "Selective damage. Bodies that point back to you."
I nod in agreement. "They're not attacking my money. They're attacking my reputation."
That fact alone is telling. This isn't random violence. This is someone who understands how power actually works. Someone patient. Someone with history. Someone who wants me looking everywhere at once.
I think of Jenna again, but this time, I push the thought aside deliberately.
Later.
Right now, I have a trail to follow.
"Lock this place down," I tell Enzo. "Find out who Steven saw in the last forty-eight hours. Anyone who touched that product. Anyone who breathed near it."
He nods. "Already in motion."
Bello clears his throat as he enters. "There's something else."
I turn slowly, giving him my full attention. Bello doesn't interrupt unless it matters.
"The entertainer," he continues. "And Mia Pascale. Both are low-level famous. Enough name recognition to get press. Enough relevance to raise eyebrows."
I agree. "I've been thinking along the same lines."
Steven's death looks different on paper. A dealer overdosing on his own product reads as an accident, tragic, unfortunate, forgettable. The other two don't. Their names travel. Their faces circulate. They make noise.
"Three incidents," Enzo says. "Three different optics."
"Exactly," I reply. "This isn't chaos. It's deliberate sabotage. They want the inside and the outside looking at me." I step closer to the counter, bracing my hands against the cold stone, letting the pattern settle into place. "They're not flooding the streets," I muse. "They're not torching entire shipments. They're lacingportions. Randomized enough to avoid detection. Controlled enough to steer the narrative."
Bello nods grimly. "Enough to make people wonder which batch is safe."
"And whether buying from us is worth the risk," Enzo adds. "Or dealing."
"Fear," I agree quietly. "But selective. Intelligent."
This isn't a brute-force attack. This is a man—or group—who understands how power erodes. How reputation rots before it collapses.
"They want everyone guessing," I continue. "Dealers watching each other. Buyers hesitating. Our own people doubting the chain of custody."
"And you," Bello says. "Distracted."
I straighten. "They're not trying to take my empire. They're trying to hollow it out. Turn it against itself."
Silence settles over the room.
