The warehouse in Marseille was nothing but ash and ruin by the time Adrian arrived.
Smoke still clung to the wreckage like the breath of death refusing to fade. The bodies had been cleared, but the blood remained dried in streaks that told stories of betrayal, of sudden violence, of ambush from within.
Adrian crouched near the charred remnants of the conference table.
They’d been having a strategy meeting when the attack happened.
Ten minutes. That’s all it took.
Someone had sold them out.
He stood slowly, eyes narrowing as Matteo approached with a tablet.
“We isolated surveillance footage from a drone two blocks away,” Matteo said. “It caught one of the cars leaving. Not much… but enough.”
Adrian looked.
The license plate was fake but the driver wasn’t.
“Carlo D'Amico,” Adrian m
