"We exploit it," I nod. "Ninety seconds isn't an accident. It's a window."
"But we don't know where it opens," Gabe says. "Yet."
I straighten. "Then we build everything else around that unknown."
He looks at me. Waiting.
"Teams staged, not committed," I continue. "Silent insertion options only. No explosions. No gunfire until we're inside."
"And the kid?"
"Primary objective," I say flatly. "Alive. Untouched. Everything else is secondary."
Gabe hesitates. "And the men holding him?"
I meet his eyes. "They live until he's breathing safe air."
That settles it. Gabe nods once. Loyal. Ruthless. Clear.
"So," he says, glancing back at the power data, "we're missing one piece."
"Yes," I agree. "But we know where it belongs."
I turn back to the screens, to the compound, to the steady pulse of that ninety-second fluctuation. Gabe is about to say something when my phone vibrates. Damiano.
The name alone tightens something in my chest. He doesn't call unless it matters. I take it. "Talk."
"Boss," he sounds clipped and strained. "We have a complication."
I don't look away from the screens. "Define."
A beat. Then, "New York has arrived in Caracas."
That gets my attention. "New York?"
"In Caracas," he confirms. "Just landed. Private arrival. Two names you're going to want to hear."
I straighten. "I'm listening."
"Stephano Conti and Raffael DeSantis."
For a fraction of a second, everything goes still. Then my mind starts moving. Conti first. Stephano Conti isn't a capo yet. His father, Gustave Conti, still holds that seat. Old-school. Careful. Their family doesn't run territory or muscle; they run fraud and cybercrime. Digital pipelines. Financial ghosts. The kind of money that never touches hands.
From what I know, Stephano is the real weapon. One of the best programmers in their circle. Quiet. Precise. Dangerous in a way that doesn't leave bodies until it's far too late. He doesn't pull triggers; he reroutes consequences. If he's in Caracas, someone needs something erased, rerouted, or made untraceable.
Then there is DeSantis.
Raffael DeSantis is newer. A shadow that didn't exist six months ago and now casts a long one. My intel is incomplete, but enough of the pieces line up to make him interesting and dangerous. Before he became a capo, he ran a vigilante outfit called Umbra Arcana—the hidden truths. Dramatic name.Effective execution. He built it to expose rot—cartels, traffickers, corrupt officials—then burned what he found. He recently married Sophia Giuliano, widow of a Giordano capo, and took over the branch. Drugs. Prostitution. Human trafficking. Except—according to every report worth trusting—human trafficking is effectively shut down. Prostitution dismantled. The money streams redirected or killed outright.
And Sophia's first husband?
DeSantis killed him. Not in a power grab. Not for territory. Because the man was abusing his wife. That detail sticks. DeSantis doesn't operate like a traditional mobster. He doesn't tolerate mess. Or hypocrisy. Or men who mistake power for entitlement. Which makes one thing very clear. If he's here, this isn't about money.
I listen as Damiano relays their movements, instruct him to continue surveillance, and end the call.
I look at Gabe. He's already piecing it together.
"This isn't a turf war," he concludes.
