The night was thick with silence—unnatural, stretched too tight like a wire about to snap.
Rico's estate was quiet, but not calm. His men were on edge. Doors creaked more than usual. Radios buzzed with whispers. Cigarettes burned faster under the nerves.
They thought they were hunting.
They didn’t know they were being hunted.
From the woods, from the shadows, Damian’s men had come.
Not all at once.
Not with noise.
But one by one.
They crept past the gate, through blind spots in the cameras. They knew exactly where to step. Exactly when to breathe.
The first man they took was leaning against a wall, bored, tapping on his phone.
A whisper behind him. A sharp twist. His knees buckled.
He crumpled soundlessly.
Dragged into the trees.
The second was walking the west corridor alone,
