My fingers stayed close to it, not quite touching.
Rafael’s presence beside me was unmistakable.
Five other men occupied the remaining seats.
Their voices were the first thing I learned about them. Deep. Rough. Thick Spanish accents layered with something older.
They greeted Rafael not with formality, but familiarity.
“Capo,” one of them said, clapping Rafael’s shoulder as he sat. “Good to see you married again. The empire needs stability.”
The wordCapolanded in the room like a stone dropped into still water.
I kept my face composed, though my throat tightened slightly at the implication I wasn’t supposed to understand yet.
The meeting began smoothly enough.
Quarterly figures. Expansion plans. Legitimate revenue streams tied to tech investments, logistics and shipping routes.
I kept my expression neutral, listening carefully, occasionally brushing my thumb over my phone screen to ensure the recording was still active.
Then the tone shifted.
“We caught two Italian guys loitering near Salvador’s warehouse two nights ago,” one man said, his voice dropping slightly, “They’re in the basement now. Tough bastards. Claim they just got lost. We’ve been... persuading them, but they’re holding.”
My fingers stopped moving.
The air changed temperature in my mind.
Basement. Persuading. Holding.
None of those words belonged in a corporate meeting.
My thumb hovered over the recording app without pressing anything further. I wasn’t sure when I’d started holding my breath, but my lungs refused to fully expand.
“Rafael,” another voice cut in, respectful but edged with urgency, “we need you to extract real answers before we dispose of them. You’re the best at breaking men who don’t want to break.”
I killed the recording.
My pulse hit my ears like distant thunder.
I tried to keep my breathing even, but it felt like my body had stopped recognizing what calm was supposed to be.
Rafael’s voice came next.
“Are you quite certain they’re threats?” he asked. “I don’t want to waste my time on tourists.”
“Capo,” another man replied, “they were carrying concealed daggers. Said it was for ‘personal protection.’ Since when do ‘lost tourists’ walk Barcelona with stilettos hidden in their jackets?”
A low chuckle followed from somewhere across the table.
“The Italians want another war on our soil again,” another voice added. “Just like our ancestors brought to theirs decades ago. We cut this off now—send a message.”
A message.
My stomach tightened.
I sat completely still, as though movement might betray that I was listening too closely, understanding too much.
