(Liam Romano's POV)
Morrow’s execution had been a hammer blow, its echo still vibrating in the walls of the safehouse. In war, information moves both ways — a message sent can become a splinter that works inward. While Hailey sat with the ghost of what we’d watched, my mind was already tallying fractures in El Contador’s empire.
Neri’s fingers danced across her console, a focused storm of motion. “I’m detecting unusual movements,” she said without looking up. “Three of the main accounts tied to Morrow have been frozen in the last twenty minutes. Urgent transfers to tax-haven accounts. Someone’s covering tracks.”
“Not someone,” I corrected, the word clipped. “Him. He’s cleaning house. Our seed is sprouting.”
I moved to the window and let the city sprawl out below like a living chessboar
