Luca:
The warehouse near the Southside dock smelled like oil and steel, familiar and unchanged. My men stood quietly surrounding a table where the latest shipment list was laid out. Guns. Ammunition. Modified tech. All packaged under fake export codes and tucked into crates labeled as medical supplies.
This wasn’t new. It’s how it always worked.
“Two crates short,” Marco said, pointing at the list. “One’s marked as rerouted. The other’s missing.”
Missing. That word again.
I kept my arms crossed, studying the columns. “When did they go off-grid?”
“Somewhere between loading in and arrival. We tracked GPS until checkpoint twelve.”
“Who signed off?”
“D’Angelo’s guy. Matteo confirmed it this morning.”
I nodded once. “Pull the checkpoint logs. Every face. Every ID. I want them cross-ch
