“It’s about more than Miami,” I realize, looking at the bigger picture. “If word spreads that we’re weak here, our suppliers across the entire South will start questioning whether we can protect their interests.”
“Some already are,” Lorenzo admits. “The Morettis have been making offers—better terms, better protection. If we can’t stop these attacks within the week...”
“They’ll flip,” I finish grimly. “And we’ll lose our entire southern operation.”
Carlos leans forward. “We need to hit back. The Moretti operations in Miami Beach—we know where they are. We could?—”
I hold up a hand, considering. “Not yet. I need to understand their full strategy first.” Something about this feels off, too obvious, but I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering me.
I’m about to voice my concerns when a faint noise catches my attention. The warehouse suddenly feels wrong—too quiet, the usual dock sounds muted.
“Everyone down!” I shout, diving behind a stack of crates as the windows explode inward.
Gunfire erupts, shattering the fluorescent lights and sending plaster raining from the ceiling. Lorenzo drops immediately, but Carlos hesitates—just long enough to catch a bullet in his shoulder.
“Fuck!” Carlos screams, clutching his wound.
I unholster my gun and return fire toward the windows, providing cover as Lorenzo drags Carlos behind a metal container.
“Back exit,” I bark, keeping low as bullets ping off concrete around us.
We navigate the maze of shipping containers as the gunfire grows more intense. I count at least five shooters. Maybe more.
“How did they find us?” Lorenzo pants as we reach the back door.
The answer hits me like ice water. “Someone told them.”
I push the door open a crack and peer out. Two men with automatic weapons wait by a black SUV—I catch a glimpse of crowned lion tattoos on their forearms. Moretti soldiers.
“Shit.” I close the door quietly. “We’re surrounded.”
My mind races as blood pounds in my ears. The information about our meeting was limited to just a handful of people—Lorenzo’s inner circle and his security team.
“The boat,” Carlos groans, gesturing toward the loading dock through a grimy window. “My boat is still tied up at pier seven.”
It’s our only chance. I lead the way through the warehouse, keeping to the shadows. When we reach the water’s edge, I see it—a small speedboat bobbing in the choppy water.
“Go,” I order, laying down cover fire as Lorenzo helps Carlos onto the boat.
The engine roars to life just as the gunmen spot us. I dive onto the deck as bullets spray the water around us. Lorenzo guns the throttle, and we lurch away from the dock.
Only when Miami’s skyline shrinks behind us do I allow myself to breathe. Blood soaks through my sleeve—I’ve been grazed, but nothing serious. Carlos is worse off; his shoulder is bleeding heavily, and his face is pale with shock.
“Who knew we were meeting?” I demand, pressing a rag against my wound.
Lorenzo shakes his head, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “Just us three, my security detail, and whoever you told back in Philly.”
I didn’t tell anyone except Fed—and he wouldn’t betray me.
“Carlos,” I say, watching his face carefully through the pain. “Who did you tell about this meeting?”
His eyes widen, confusion mixing with agony. “Just... just my driver and Luca. Luca Vega. He was supposed to secure the warehouse before we arrived.”
“Luca Vega,” I repeat, the name tasting bitter. “Where is he now?”
“He called in sick this morning,” Carlos gasps, his face going even paler. “Said he had food poisoning.”
Lorenzo curses viciously. “That son of a bitch. I’ve had him in my crew for three years. Three fucking years.”
