Santino drove back from the prison with one hand on the wheel and one thought pounding in his skull:
El Amore did this. All of it. The lies, the loss, the silence, the streets. He had lived like an orphan, but it wasn't fate. It was designed. And the man responsible still called him "son."
The sun was dipping behind the clouds by the time he pulled into the warehouse lot. Everything felt dimmer now—colors, thoughts, emotions.
He wasn't angry. He was surgical.
His phone buzzed. Bumos. "Boss, we need to talk," the voice came through, fast and nervous.
"Go ahead."
"It's the Marseille shipment. There's been a delay."
"What kind of delay?"
"Truck broke down. Outside Lyon."
Santino's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Since when?"
"This morning."
"And you're just calling now?"
"I
