I pressed the tip playfully against his cheek. "The problem with lies," I murmured, letting the blade glide lightly over his skin, "is that you have to be damn good to sell them. And you—" I jerked the blade to a stop right at his jawbone. "—are not good. And you know what I do to people who lie to me?"
I yanked the knife back suddenly, flipped it in my grip, and drove the point straight through the back of his hand—pinned flat against the chair’s armrest. "Jiménez is dead," I roared, twisting the blade deeper. The pain made him crumple. "Shot by his own brother."
He screamed, writhing in agony. Blood welled over his knuckles, dripping from the armrest onto the concrete below.
Giovanni, who had been watching with his arms crossed the whole time, gave a slight shake of his head. "Christ, you’re such a fucking sadist."
"Can't handle it? Then get out!" That subtle jab—coming from Giovanni, of all people—soured my mood. "I'm just good at spotting liars. And our friend here—" I eyed the Colombian, whose entire body was shaking violently. "—is a fucking terrible one."
He flinched, panic having long since overtaken him. "Vargas! It's Vargas! Diego Vargas!"
"Vargas?" I leaned back, studying him thoughtfully, keeping the knife buried in his hand. "That makes a lot more sense," I said slowly, "but here's the thing—I don't trust you anymore."
He shook his head, unable to speak, but I saw his gaze flicker toward Giovanni's bloody pliers. Sweat rolled down his forehead in thick beads. "Please… I… I didn’t mean to lie!" he stammered, his voice cracking with fear.
I paused, the knife still, but my stare locked onto him. "You didn’t mean to lie?" I mocked. "Then let’s set the record straight. What’s the real name?"
He trembled like a leaf, his throat quivering before he surrendered in sheer terror: "Vargas! Please... it's Diego Vargas! ¡Dios mío!" The Colombian shook his head frantically, tears streaking down his face.
I straightened, yanked the knife from his hand, and finally dropped it carelessly onto the table. Then I turned to Giovanni. "Untie him. It’s time our friend here delivers a messa—"
The air split with the deafening crack of gunfire. The sound was sharp, brutal, sending adrenaline screaming through my veins.
"Fucking hell!" Giovanni snarled, throwing himself behind one of the warehouse’s massive concrete support pillars. His face twisted in fury. "Did you sweep him for trackers?"
"No!" I lunged in the opposite direction, ducking behind a metal tool table. "I thought you did."
Giovanni glared at me from cover, his voice raw with rage. "Fuck no!"
Footsteps pounded against concrete, accompanied by frantic Spanish shouting.
Giovanni silently raised his left arm, palm facing me—five fingers for five men.
I gave a sharp nod and slid across the floor behind a pillar, still covered, while they remained fixated on the Colombian. Five men. If Vargas had really sent that arms dealer and five of his men all the way to Miami, this was more than just a warning. Vargas—the man who controlled the second-largest cartel in Colombia after me. For years, the conflict between us had smoldered like embers beneath the surface. But this wasn’t quiet saber-rattling anymore. This was a declaration of war. And if he was willing to send men across borders, then it was clear: the spark had caught.
I drew my Glock, checked the magazine once more, and screwed on the suppressor I carried like a talisman.
"Who did this?" a booming voice echoed off the walls. "Who was it?"
The Colombian, pale from blood loss, gasped for air. Panic twisted his features as his eyes darted between the men in the room, until finally, in a trembling voice, he stammered: "T-T-The Lord... the L-L-Lord of the Dark," the Colombian choked out in broken Spanish.
For a heartbeat, the room went deathly still. Even the dripping water from a pipe seemed to pause.
"Mierda, carajo... él está aquí..." — "Fucking hell... he's here..." one of the men hissed under his breath.
A single gunshot rang out. The Colombian slumped lifeless in his chair, his head lolling heavily to the side. He'd failed his mission—to eliminate me in Miami, or at least sabotage me. And Vargas, clearly displeased, had given his men explicit orders. The sound of his last breath was little more than a faint rattle.
More gunfire shattered the silence, followed by deliberate,heavy footsteps. I removed the mask from my face and set it carefully aside. The reflective metal could have given me away. And even if they recognized me, they wouldn’t be leaving this warehouse alive.
"Lord of the Dark," a voice echoed through the darkness, razor-edged with tension. "We know you're here. You were good, but we’ve got you. Coming out would be smart."
I felt Giovanni’s questioning gaze. I gave an almost imperceptible shake of my head. Not yet. They were nervous, but not reckless. No reason to throw away the advantage of our cover.
Pressed tight against the pillar, Giovanni scanned the warehouse intently. He pointed his index finger toward my right, raised two fingers for two men on my side, then gestured toward the center, lifting two more fingers for another pair advancing mid-room. The fifth was closing in on Giovanni’s left.
"Not even you can take us all," the voice came again, sharper now. "You’re not invincible. Show yourself, and we’ll talk."
Another muttered something in Spanish. I didn’t catch every word, but the tone suggested a warning. These weren’t amateurs, no wave of incompetents to mow down blindly. They were trained. Hunters. But not lords.
