Leone
I stare at the harbor map spread across my desk, the shipping lanes marked in red, drop points in blue. Mikhail’s ultimatum hangs over me and I need to sabotage Santos’s shipment or face consequences. The Russian thinks he has me backed into a corner, forced to choose between crossing the Mexican cartel or inviting his wrath. What he doesn’t understand is that men like me don’t accept binary choices. We create third options, preferably ones where our enemies eliminate each other while we watch from a comfortable distance.
“The shipment arrives tomorrow night,” Milo says, appearing at my side with a glass of water and two pills, painkillers for the headache that’s been building behind my eyes all day. I take them without comment.
“Santos has been a reliable partner,” I say, tracing
