GIANCARLO
The boat rocks against Belmont Harbor's dock, a forty-foot Hatteras that screams money laundered through channels darker than Lake Michigan at midnight. Through night-vision binoculars, I track Vivienne's crew loading crates marked with shipping codes that lie like politicians—brazenly, without shame. The real cargo requires delicate handling, each container wrapped in oilcloth that shimmers with symbols my eyes slide away from.
"Three more vehicles," Quinn's voice purrs through my earpiece, their position on a neighboring yacht providing perfect surveillance angles. "Whatever she's moving makes her wolves nervous. They're sweating through kevlar."
Akiko shifts beside me, her thigh pressed against mine in the Maserati's confines. Three days since Roger's humiliation, and her e
