It was early morning. The sky above the southern district hung low, gray and unpromising. Dark clouds covered the moon, and a dry wind whipped across the open space outside the city limits, where the Salvatore family’s fuel depot stood.
The depot looked like an ordinary facility from a distance: rows of giant metal tanks, an empty watchtower, and a fence topped with barbed wire. But anyone who knew how Orlando’s underworld worked would understand that this was more than just a logistics depot. This was the heart of supply, the birthplace of weapons, war machine lubricants, and shady transactions that were never recorded in official documents.
And tonight, that heart would be burned.
In a small operations room in the east wing of La Heta’s headquarters, Xavier stood in front of an old
