Page 219 of Don’t Say Mafia

I stopped short, staring into the hollow steel shell, the overhead lights throwing harsh reflections along bare metal walls that should have been stacked floor to ceiling. I dragged a hand down my face. “I really don’t have time for this.”

Maddox pulled out his tablet and swiped through the manifest, cross-checking container numbers and time stamps before he groaned. “Well,” he said evenly, tilting the screen toward me. “That’s a problem.”

I glanced down at the manifest, scanning the container ID, the route verification, the customs clearance stamps, all of it lining up exactly as it should. But the listed contents . . . Weapons . . . and not recreational ones. Oh good, this particular container had been storing our military-grade inventory . . .

“Yes,” I said stiffly. “It is.”

I glanced back toward the water, then to the men waiting for direction. “Lock the docks down,” I said evenly. “No one leaves until I know exactly how this happened.”

Maddox cracked his neck once, already reaching for his phone. “Want me to start digging?”

I looked back at the container, nodding in annoyance. “Yes,” I said. “Start with cameras. Then manifests. Then everyone who thought today was a good time to test my patience.”

Lawson arrived the way he always did when something had gone catastrophically wrong—unbothered, caffeinated, and faintly entertained by the chaos he’d been summoned into. He had a laptop tucked under one arm and a cold brew in the other, like this was a tech start-up and not a weapons shipment that had just evaporated.

Objectively, I believed that Lawson had the easiest job in the organization. And unobjectively . . . I was not wrong about that.

Lawson didn’t stand on docks at four in the morning. He didn’t negotiate face-to-face with men who treated eye contact like a declaration of war. He also didn’t clean up blood. Lawson sat in climate-controlled rooms with excellent Wi-Fi and better espresso, moving numbers around until reality bent itself in his favor.

Easy.

I would never say that to him, obviously. The last time someone had implied his job was “just computer stuff,” Lawson had smiled nicely . . . and then ruined the man’s life.

It had started with something almost forgettable, a delayed wire transfer that held up payroll just long enough to cause discomfort. But then there had been a flagged transaction that triggered internal compliance questions, and after that, purely by coincidence, of course, an inconvenient audit initiated by a quiet, anonymous tip to the IRS.

Within forty-eight hours, the man’s accounts were frozen “pending review.” Within seventy-two, photos from a private vacation he absolutely had not taken alone began circulating on three separate anonymous message boards, each one curated with time stamps, geotags, and just enough context to be devastating.

By the end of the week, his investors were nervous, his board was furious, and his wife had discovered that his “leadership retreat” in Monaco had involved significantly less leadership than advertised.

Lawson had done it all without leaving his ergonomic chair.

So no, I never told Lawson his job was easy. I enjoyed having access to my money.

Lawson didn’t so much sit as drape himself into the chair Maddox dragged over, stretching his long legs out like he’d just acquired waterfront property. His laptop was open before his back even hit the metal, and his fingers were already moving across the keys.

Lawson carried the kind of tan that suggested he answered encrypted emails from yachts. Unlike the rest of us, he could work from anywhere . . . and he did so, often. His dark brown hair was cut messily, a single blond streak falling forward no matter how many times he shoved it back. It gave him a perpetually reckless look that matched his hoodie and the grin always tugging at his mouth.

Maddox really hated Lawson’s hoodie.

“I love it when people try to be clever,” Lawson said, not looking up as his fingers flew across the keyboard. “It makes my job more fun.”

“Tell me you have something,” I replied, folding my arms as I stared at some graffiti on the warehouse wall opposite us, where, in bold spray paint, someone had immortalized the words Big Fart.

“Oh, I have lots of somethings,” Lawson said cheerfully. “Telemetry, AIS data, engine output, ballast fluctuations. I pulled the whole digital autobiography. This vessel has overshared.” He turned the screen and zoomed in with a flick of his fingers.

“Right here,” he continued. “Twenty miles off the coast, the engines reduced output for exactly eleven minutes. Not long enough to raise alarms, but definitely long enough to matter . . .”

Maddox leaned in. “That’s the window.”

“Exactly,” Lawson agreed, flashing him a grin that said he loved being right. “Long enough for a mid-water transfer if everyone involved knew their roles.”

I studied the screen, watching the data scroll past. Coordinates. Engine output. A neat little dip in performance, like a heartbeat skipped on purpose. “So they never came near the docks,” I said.

“Nope,” Lawson said. “This was all offshore. Someone with access, timing, and a truly inspirational amount of confidence.”

“That confidence,” I said evenly, “was misplaced.”

Lawson’s expression sharpened, the amusement turning focused. “I’m pulling traffic anomalies in the surrounding radius. There’s a vessel that tried very hard to blend into background noise. Which, ironically, made it glow.”