The afternoon light fell through the half-open blinds in Cruz’s office.
He sat behind his desk, staring at the glass of whiskey in front of him. The room was quiet. The only sound came from the ticking clock on the wall and the faint hum of the air conditioner.
One of his men entered, his boots loud against the marble floor. He bowed slightly. “Boss, we just got word.”
Cruz didn’t look up. “What word?”
The man hesitated. “It’s about the warehouse.”
Cruz leaned back in his chair, his tone sharp. “What about it?”
The man swallowed. “Lucian and Lorenzo hit it this morning. Our men are dead. Every one of them.”
The glass in Cruz’s hand tilted slightly. He didn’t drop it. He didn’t even blink. “All of them?”
“Yes, boss. The survivors were taken. They were questioned.”
Cruz set the glas
