The VIP lounge of O’Hare Terminal 5 felt like a glass box suspended over an abyss. Outside, the rain lashed against the reinforced panes, blurring the runway lights into smeared neon halos. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and the sharp, metallic tang of impending violence. Enzo’s finger twitched on the trigger of the suppressed pistol aimed at Sofia, his eyes darting between the silver Sucre in my hand and the glowing green countdown on my laptop screen.
"Three seconds, Enzo," I said, my voice as cold and steady as the mountain air of the Andes. "Two. One."
I didn't hit the key. I didn't have to. The psychological profile I had studied in my university classes told me exactly what a man like Enzo would do when his power was stripped down to a digital timer. He
