It was a usual night before the first shot shattered it.
Black SUVs zoomed into the arena like shadows hunting prey. When they stopped, the men stepped out. Armed. Disciplined. Moving in formation.
They all stood still, waiting in silence as the boss stepped out of the car.
Volkov krov.
The man the world called danger.
A tall, lean figure in a black suit that swallowed the moonlight. His expression was unreadable, his calm too sharp to be human. He walked to the center of the compound with the patience of death itself.
Ahead stood Rino's territory, one of the smaller cartels under his command, trusted to move product across borders cleanly. But the photo in Volkov's gloved hand told another story.
Two children, no older than twelve, were dragged through customs with cocaine tape
