Peter Andrews sat hunched over his desk in the sterile, low-lit environment of the DEA headquarters. It was late, the kind of quiet hour where exhaustion fought with obsession. His desk was buried under mountains of paperwork, financial reports, and blurry surveillance photos—the evidence of the sprawling, intricate Rossi crime ring.
His mission was frustratingly stalled. The operation was massive: drugs, guns, money laundering—there was so much of it that the sheer volume was designed to overwhelm any investigation. But the single, infuriating problem remained: none of it was tied directly to Antonio Rossi. The King had insulated himself perfectly, relying on layers of shell corporations and subordinates. There was never enough evidence to convict.
Peter rubbed the angry, red scar above
